THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Professor  Harrison  M.   Kan 


A  Heap  o'  Livin' 


A  Heap  o'  Livin' 


By 

Edgar  A.  Guest 

Author  of 
"Just    Folks" 


The  Reilly  &  Lee  Co. 

Chicago 


Copyright,  1916 

by 
The  Reilly  &  Britton  Co. 

Made  in  U.  S.  A. 
Published  September  29,  1916. 
Reprinted — November  and  De 
cember,  1916;  March,  April, 
October  and  November,  1917; 
February,  May,  June,  Decem 
ber,  1918,  and  March,  1919. 


A  Heap  o'  Lvvinf 


fS 


To 

Marjorie  and  Buddy 

this  little  book  of  verse 

is  affectionately 

dedicated 
by  their  Daddy 


INDEX 

Answering  Him 126 

Apple  Tree,  The 68 

As  Fall  the  Leaves 188 

At  the  Door 132 

Autumn  at  the  Orchard. . 136 

Be  a  Friend 97 

Bear  Story,  A 134 

Boy  That  Was,  The 186 

Breakfast  Time,  At 50 

Bumps  and  Bruises  Doctor,  The 107 

Canning  Time 66 

Can't   52 

Care-Free  Youth •.  78 

Challenge 145 

Courage    72 

Defeat in 

Division    141 

Dull  Road,  The 67 

Duty   133 

Duty  to  Our  Flag,  Our 58 

Easy  World,  An 158 

Epicure,  The 74 

Eternal  Friendship 167 

Expectation    176 

Failures    83 

Faith 168 

Father 46 

Father  and  Son 128 

Fishing  Cure,  The 102 

Finer  Thought,  The 164 

Finest  Age,  The 76 


Index- 
Folks  36 

Friend's  Greeting,  A 32 

Gentle  Gardener,  The 75 

Going  Home  for  Christmas,  On 24 

Gratitude 179 

Greatness    73 

Guessing  Time 148 

Happiest  Days,  The 88 

Happy  Slow  Thinker,  The 103 

Hard  Knocks 43 

Hard  Work 1 77 

Home    28 

Homesick    117 

Home  Town,  The 70 

House-Hunting    156 

How  Do  You  Tackle  Your  Work  ? 62 

Hunter,   The 59 

I    • I7Q 

It  Isn't  Costly 14 

It's  September 60 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 54 

Joy  of  a  Dog,  The 116 

June  Couple,  The 130 

Junk  Box,  The 185 

Laddies 48 

Lady  in  the  Electric,  To  the 122 

Life   63 

Life's  Tests 85 

Little  Master  Mischievous 38 

Living  Beauties,  The 49 

Ma  and  Her  Check  Book 100 

Ma  and  the  Auto   .                      22 


Index 

Man,  A 142 

Man,  A  Real 180 

Man  Who  Couldn't  Save,  The 124 

Mother    19 

Mother's  Day 140 

Mother's  Glasses   94 

My  Creed 15 

My  Paw  Said  So 80 

Neighborly  Man,  The 182 

No  Place  to  Go no 

Obligation  of  Friendship,  The 162 

Old  Friends 34 

Only  a  Dad 42 

Opportunity    39 

Other  Fellow,  The 57 

Out-of-Doors   104 

Path  That  Leads  to  Home,  The 30 

Patriotic  Wish,  A 112 

Peace 109 

Peaceful  Warriors,  The 82 

People  Liked  Him 152 

Perfect  Dinner  Table,  The 118 

Prayer,  A 121 

Preparedness 81 

Price  of  Joy,  The 113 

Princess  Pat's,  The 96 

Promotion 174 

Purpose 93 

Raisin   Pie 84 

Ready  Artists,  The 86 

Real  Bait,   The 90 

Real  Singing 106 


Index 

Results  and  Roses 56 

Revenge    1 73 

Rich 21 

Roses 184 

Rough  Little  Rascal,  The 13 

Selfish 20 

Song,  A 33 

Sorrow  Tugs,  The 40 

Spring  in  the  Trenches 44 

States,  The 160 

Story  Telling 64 

Stuck 166 

Success  and  Failure 77 

Sugar  Camp,  At 26 

Sulkers,   The 92 

Take  Home  a  Smile 71 

Thanksgiving 98 

Things  That  Haven't  Been  Done  Before ...  172 

Things  That  Make  Soldier  Great,  The. ...  114 

Toast  to  Happiness,  A 146 

To-morrow 120 

Treasures    144 

True   Nobility 91 

Understanding   150 

Under  the  Skin  of  Men 163 

Vow,  A 143 

Wish,  A 16 

What  a  Baby  Costs 18 

When  Father  Shook  the  Stove 1 54 

When  Pa  Comes  Home 138 

When  Pa  Counts 108 

When  You  Know  a  Fellow 1 1 


WHEN  YOU  KNOW  A  FELLOW 

When  you  get  to  know  a  fellow,  know  his  joys 

and  know  his  cares, 
When  you've  come  to  understand  him  and  the 

burdens  that  he  bears, 
When  you've  learned  the  fight  he's  making  and 

the  troubles  in  his  way, 
Then   you   find   that   he   is   different   than   you 

thought  him  yesterday. 
You  find  his  faults  are  trivial  and  there's  not  so 

much  to  blame 
In  the  brother  that  you  jeered  at  when  you  only 

knew  his  name. 

You  are  quick  to  see  the  blemish  in  the  distant 

neighbor's  style, 
You  can  point  to  all  his  errors  and  may  sneer 

at  him  the  while, 
And    your    prejudices    fatten    and    your    hates 

more  violent  grow 
As  you  talk  about  the  failures  of  the  man  you 

do  not  know, 
But  when  drawn  a  little  closer,  and  your  hands 

and  shoulders  touch, 
You '  find    the    traits    you    hated    really    don't 

amount  to  much. 

II 


When  you  get  to  know  a  fellow,  know  his  every 
mood  and  whim. 

You  begin  to  find  the  texture  of  the  splendid 
side  of  him; 

You  begin  to  understand  him,  and  you  cease  to 
scoff  and  sneer, 

For  with  understanding  always  prejudices  dis 
appear. 

You  begin  to  find  his  virtues  and  his  faults  you 
cease  to  tell, 

For  you  seldom  hate  a  fellow  when  you  know 
him  very  well. 

When  next  you  start  in  sneering  and  your 
phrases  turn  to  blame, 

Know  more  of  him  you  censure  than  his  business 
and  his  name; 

For  it's  likely  that  acquaintance  would  your 
prejudice  dispel 

And  you'd  really  come  to  like  him  if  you 
knew  him  very  well. 

When  you  get  to  know  a  fellow  and  you  under 
stand  his  ways, 

Thei?  his  faults  won't  really  matter,  for  you'H 
find  a  lot  to  praise. 


12 


THE  ROUGH  LITTLE  RASCAL 

A  smudge  on  his  nose  and  a  smear  on  his  cheek 
And  knees  that  might  not  have  been  washed  in 

a  week; 

A  bump  on  his  forehead,  a  scar  on  his  lip, 
A  relic  of  many  a  tumble  and  trip: 
A   rough   little,   tough   little   rascal,   but   sweet, 
Is  he  that  each  evening  I'm  eager  to  meet. 

A  brow  that  is  beady  with  jewels  of  sweat ; 
A  face  that's  as  black  as  a  visage  can  get; 
A  suit  that  at  noon  was  a  garment  of  white, 
Now  one  that  his  mother  declares  is  a  fright : 
A  fun-loving,  sun-loving  rascal,  and  fine, 
Is  he  that  comes  placing  his  black  fist  in  mine. 

A  crop  of  brown  hair  that  is  tousled  and  tossed ; 
A  waist  from  which  two  of  the  buttons  are  lost ; 
A  smile  that  shines  out  through  the  dirt  and  the 

grime, 

And  eyes  that  are  flashing  delight  all  the  time: 
All  these  are  the  joys  that  I'm  eager  to  meet 
And  look  for  the  moment  I  get  to  my  street. 


IT  ISN'T  COSTLY 

Does   the   grouch   get    richer   quicker    than    the 

friendly  sort  of  man? 
Can  the  grumbler  labor  better  than  the  cheerful 

fellow   can  ? 
Is  the  mean  and  churlish  neighbor  any  cleverer 

than  the  one 
Who  shouts  a  glad  "  good  morning,"  and  then 

smiling  passes  on? 

Just  stop  and  think  about  it.     Have  you  ever 

known  or  seen 
A  mean  man  who   succeeded,   just  because   he 

was  so  mean? 
When  you  find  a  grouch  with  honors  and  with 

money  in  his  pouch, 
You  can  bet  he  didn't  win  them  just  because 

he  was  a  grouch. 

Oh,  you'll  not  be  any  poorer  if  you  smile  along 

your  way, 
And  your  lot  will  not  be  harder  for  the  kindly 

things  you  say. 
Don't  imagine  you  are  wasting  time  for  others 

that  you  spend: 
You  can  rise  to  wealth  and  glory  and  still  pause 

to  be  a  friend. 


MY  CREED 

To  live  as  gently  as  I  can; 
To  be,  no  matter  where,  a  man ; 
To  take  what  comes  of  good  or  ill 
And  cling  to  faith  and  honor  still; 
To  do  my  best,  and  let  that  stand 
The  record  of  my  brain  and  hand; 
And  then,  should  failure  come  to  me> 
Still  work  and  hope  for  victory. 

To  have  no  secret  place  wherein 
I  stoop  unseen  to  shame  or  sin; 
To  be  the  same  when  I'm  alone 
As  when  my  every  deed  is  known; 
To  live  undaunted,  unafraid 
Of  any  step  that  I  have  made; 
To  be  without  pretense  or  sham 
Exactly  what  men  think  I  am. 

To  leave  some  simple  mark  behind 
To  keep  my  having  lived  in  mind; 
If  enmity  to  aught  I  show, 
To  be  an  honest,  generous  foe, 
To  play  my  little  part,  nor  whine 
That  greater  honors  are  not  mine. 
This,  I  believe,  is  all  I  need 
For  my  philosophy  and  creed. 


A  WISH 

I'd  like  to  be  a  boy  again,  a  care-free  prince  of 

joy  again, 
I'd  like  to  tread  the  hills  and  dales  the  way  I 

used  to  do; 
I'd   like  the  tattered   shirt   again,   the   knickers 

thick  with  dirt  again, 
The  ugly,  dusty  feet  again  that  long  ago  I 

knew. 
I'd   like  to  play  first  base   again,   and   Sliver's 

curves  to   face  again, 
I'd  like  to  climb,  the  way  I  did,  a  friendly 

apple  tree; 
For,   knowing  what   I   do  to-day,   could   I   but 

wander  back  and  play, 

I'd   get    full   measure   of   the   joy   that   boy 
hood  gave  to  me. 

I'd  like  to  be  a  lad  again,  a  youngster,  wild  and 

glad  again, 
I'd  like  to  sleep  and  eat  again  the  way  I  used 

to  do ; 
I'd  like  to  race  and  run  again,  and  drain  from 

life  its  fun  again, 
And  start  another  round  of  joy  the  moment 

one  was  through. 
But  care  and  strife  have  come  to  me,  and  often 

days  are  glum  to  me, 

16 


And  sleep  is  not  the  thing  it  was  and  food 

is  not  the  same; 
And    I    have    sighed,    and   known   that    I    must 

journey  on  again  to  sigh, 
And  I  have  stood  at  envy's  point  and  heard 
the  voice  of  shame. 

I've  learned  that  joys  are  fleeting  things;  that 

parting  pain  each  meeting  brings; 
That  gain  and  loss  are  partners  here,  and  so 

are  smiles  and  tears; 
That  only  boys  from  day  to  day  can  drain  and 

fill  the  cup  of  play; 
That    age    must    mourn    for    what    is    lost 

throughout  the  coming  years. 
But  boys   cannot  appreciate  their  priceless  joy 

until  too  late 
And  those  who  own  the  charms  I   had  will 

soon  be  changed  to  men; 
And  then,  they  too  will  sit,  as  I,  and  backward 

turn  to  look  and  sigh 

And  share  my  longing,  vain,  to  be  a  care 
free  boy  again. 


WHAT  A  BABY  COSTS 

"How   much  do  babies  cost?"   said   he 

The  other  night  upon  my  knee; 

And  then  I  said:    "  They  cost  a  lot; 

A  lot  of  watching  by  a  cot, 

A  lot  of  sleepless  hours  and  care, 

A  lot  of  heart-ache  and  despair, 

A  lot  of  fear  and  trying  dread, 

And  sometimes  many  tears  are  shed 

In  payment  for  our  babies  small, 

But  every  one  is  worth  it  all. 

"  For  babies  people  have  to  pay 

A  heavy  price  from  day  to  day  — 

There  is  no  way  to  get  one  cheap. 

Why,   sometimes   when  they're    fast   asleep 

You  have  to  get  up  in  the  night 

And  go  and  see  that  they're  all  right. 

But  what  they  cost   in   constant   care 

And  worry,  does  not  half  compare 

With  what  they  bring  of  joy  and  bliss  — 

You'd    pay    much    more    for    just    a    kiss. 

"  Who  buys  a  baby  has  to  pay 
A  portion  of  the  bill  each  day; 
He  has  to  give  his  time  and  thought 
Unto  the  little  one  he's  bought. 
He  has  to  stand  a  lot  of  pain 
Inside  his  heart  and  not  complain; 
18 


And  pay  with  lonely  days  and  sad 
For  all  the  happy  hours  he's  had. 
All  this  a  baby  costs,  and  yet 
His  smile  is  worth  it  all,  you  bet.' 


MOTHER 

Never  a  sigh  for  the  cares  that  she  bore  for  me. 

Never  a  thought  of  the  joys  that  flew  by; 
Her  one  regret  that  she  couldn't  do  more  for  me, 

Thoughtless  and  selfish,  her  Master  was  I. 

Oh,  the  long  nights  that  she  came  at  my  call  to 

me! 

Oh,  the  soft  touch  of  her  hands  on  my  brow! 
Oh,  the  long  years  that  she  gave  up  her  all  to 

me! 
Oh,  how  I  yearn  for  her  gentleness  now! 

Slave  to  her  baby!     Yes,  that  was  the  way  of 

her, 

Counting  her  greatest  of  services  small; 
Words   cannot   tell   what  this   old   heart   would 

say  of  her, 

Mother  —  the  sweetest  and  fairest  of  all. 
19 


SELFISH 

I  am  selfish  in  my  wishin'  every  sort  o'  joy  for 

you; 
I  am  selfish  when  I  tell  you  that  I'm  wishin' 

skies  o'  blue 
Bending  o'er  you  every  minute,  and  a  pocketful 

of  gold, 
An'  as  much  of  love  an'  gladness  as  a  human 

heart   can   hold. 
Coz  I  know  beyond  all  question  that  if  such  a 

thing  could  be 
As  you  cornerin'  life's  riches  you  would  share- 

'em  all  with  me. 

I  am  selfish  in  my  wishin'  every  sorrow  from 
your  way, 

With  no  trouble  thoughts  to  fret  you  at  the 
closin'  o'  the  day; 

An'  it's  selfishness  that  bids  me  wish  you  com 
forts  by  the  score, 

An'  all  the  joys  you  long  for,  an'  on  top  o' 
them,  some  more; 

Coz  I  know,  old  tried  an'  faithful,  that  if  such 
a  thing  could  be 

As  you  cornerin'  life's  riches  you  would  share 
'em  all  with  me. 


20 


RICH 

Who  has  a  troop   of   romping  youth 

About  his  parlor  floor, 
Who  nightly  hears  a  round  of  cheers, 

When  he  is  at  the  door, 
Who  is  attacked  on  every  side 

By  eager  little  hands 
That  reach  to  tug  his  grizzled  mug, 

The  wealth  of  earth  commands. 

Who   knows   the  joys   of   girls   and   boys, 

His  lads  and  lassies,  too, 
Who's  pounced  upon  and  bounced  upon 

When  his  day's  work  is  through, 
Whose  trousers  know  the  gentle  tug 

Of  some  glad  little  tot, 
The  baby  of  his  crew  of  love, 

Is    wealthier   than   a   lot. 

Oh,   be  he  poor  and  sore  distressed 

And    weary   with   the    fight, 
If   with  a  whoop  his  healthy  troop 

Run,    welcoming    at    night, 
And  kisses  greet  him  at  the  end 

Of  all  his  toiling  grim, 
With  what  is  best  in  life  he's  blest 

And  rich  men  envy  him. 


21 


MA  AND  THE  AUTO 

Before  we  take  an  auto  ride   Pa  says  to   Ma: 

i£  My  dear, 
Now   just   remember   I    don't   need   suggestions 

from  the  rear. 
If  you  will  just  sit   still  back  there   and   hold 

in  check  your  fright, 
I'll  take   you   where   you   want  to   go   and   get 

you  back  all  right. 
Remember  that  my  hearing's  good  and  also  I'm 

not  blind, 
And   I   can  drive   this   car  without   suggestions 

from  behind." 

Ma  promises  that  she'll  keep  still,  then  off  we 
gayly  start, 

But  soon  she  notices  ahead  a  peddler  and  his 
cart. 

"  You'd  better  toot  your  horn,"  says  she,  "  to  let 
him  know  we're  near ; 

He  might  turn  out ! "  and  Pa  replies :  "  Just 
shriek  at  him,  my  dear." 

And  then  he  adds :  "  Some  day,  some  guy  will 
make  a  lot  of  dough 

By  putting  horns  on  tonneau  seats  for  women 
folks  to  blow ! " 


22 


A  little  farther  on  Ma  cries :    "  He  signaled  for 

a  turn !  " 
And  Pa  says :  "  Did  he  ?  "  in  a  tone  that's  hot 

enough  to  burn. 
"  Oh,  there's  a  boy  on  roller  skates !  "  cries  Ma. 

"  Now  do  go  slow. 
I'm  sure  he  doesn't  see  our  car."  And  Pa  says : 

"  I  dunno, 
I  think  I  don't  need  glasses  yet,  but  really  it 

may  be 
That  I   am  blind  and   cannot  see   what's   right 

in  front  of  me." 

If  Pa  should  speed  the  car  a  bit  some  rigs  to 

hurry  past 
Ma  whispers:     "Do  be  careful  now.     You're 

driving  much  too   fast." 
And  all  the  time  she's  pointing  out  the  dangers 

of  the  street 
And    keeps    him    posted    on    the    roads    where 

trolley  cars  he'll  meet. 
Last  night  when  we  got  safely  home,  Pa  sighed 

and  said :    "  My  dear, 
I'm  sure  we've  all  enjoyed  the  drive  you  gave 

us  from  the  rear ! " 


ON  GOING  HOME  FOR  CHRISTMAS 

He  little  knew  the  sorrow  that  was  in  his  vacant 
chair ; 

He  never  guessed  they'd  miss  him,  or  he'd 
surely  have  been  there; 

He  couldn't  see  his  mother  or  the  lump  that 
filled  her  throat, 

Or  the  tears  that  started  falling  as  she  read 
his  hasty  note; 

And  he  couldn't  see  his  father,  sitting  sor 
rowful  and  dumb, 

Or  he  never  would  have  written  that  he  thought 
he  couldn't  come. 

He   little   knew  the   gladness  that   his   presence 

would  have  made, 
And  the  joy  it  would  have  given,  or  he  never 

would  have  stayed. 
He    didn't    know    how    hungry    had    the    little 

mother  grown 
Once  again  to  see  her  baby  and  to  claim  him 

for  her  own. 
He    didn't    guess    the    meaning    of    his    visit 

Christmas  Day 
Or    he    never    would    have    written    that    he 

couldn't  get  away. 


24 


He  couldn't  see  the   fading  of  the  cheeks  that 

once  were  pink, 
And    the    silver    in   the   tresses;   and   he    didn't 

stop  to  think 
How   the   years  are   passing   swiftly,   and  next 

Christmas  it  might  be 
There  would  be  no  home  to  visit  and  no  mother 

dear  to  see. 
He  didn't  think  about  it  —  I'll  not  say  he  didn't 

care. 
He  was  heedless  and   forgetful   or  he'd  surely 

have  been  there. 

Are  you  going  home  for  Christmas?     Have  you 

written  you'll  be  there? 
Going   home   to  kiss   the   mother   and  to   show 

her  that  you  care? 
Going  home   to   greet  the    father   in   a  way  to 

make  him  glad? 
If  you're  not  I  hope  there'll  never  come  a  time 

you'll   wish  you   had. 
Just  sit  down  and  write  a  letter  — -  it  will  make 

their  heart   strings   hum 
With  a  tune  of  perfect  gladness  —  if  you'll  tell 

them  that  you'll  come. 


AT   SUGAR  CAMP 

At  Sugar  Camp  the  cook  is  kind 

And  laughs  the  laugh  we  knew  as  boys; 
And  there  we  slip  away  and  find 

Awaiting  us  the  old-time  joys. 
The  catbird  calls  the  selfsame  way 

She  used  to  in  the  long  ago, 
And  there's  a  chorus  all  the  day 

Of  songsters  it  is  good  to  know. 

The  killdeer  in  the  distance  cries; 

The  thrasher,  in  her  garb  of  brown, 
From  tree  to  tree  in  gladness  flies. 

.Forgotten    is    the    world's    renown, 
Forgotten  are  the  years  we've  known; 

At  Sugar  Camp  there  are  no  men; 
We've    ceased    to    strive    for    things    to    own' 

We're  in  the  woods  as  boys  again. 

Our  pride  is  in  the  strength  of  trees, 

Our  pomp  the  pomp  of  living  things; 
Our  ears  are  tuned  to  melodies 

That  every  feathered  songster  sings. 
At  Sugar  Camp  our  noonday  meal 

Is  eaten  in  the  open  air, 
Where   through   the   leaves   the   sunbeams    steal 

And  simple  is  our  bill  of  fare. 


26 


At   Sugar   Camp   in  peace   we   dwell 

And  none  is  boastful  of  himself; 
None  plots  to  gain  with  shot  and  shell 

His  neighbor's   bit   of   land   or  pelf. 
The  roar  of  cannon  isn't  heard, 

There   stilled  is  money's  tempting  voice; 
Someone  detects  a  new-come  bird 

And  at  her  presence  all  rejoice. 

At  Sugar   Camp  the  cook  is  kind; 

His  steak  is  broiling  o'er  the  coals 
And  in  its  sputtering  we  find 

Sweet  harmony  for  tired  souls. 
There,  sheltered  by  the  friendly  trees, 

As  boys  we  sit  to  eat  our  meal, 
And,  brothers  to  the  birds  and  bees, 

We  hold  communion  with  the  real. 


HOME 

It  takes  a  heap  o'  livin'  in  a  house  t'  make  it 

home, 
A  heap  o'   sun  an'   shadder,   an'   ye  sometimes 

have  t'  roam 
Afore    ye    really    'predate    the    things    ye    lef 

behind, 
An'   hunger   fer  'em  somehow,   with   'em  allus 

on  yer  mind. 
It  don't  make  any  differunce  how  rich  ye  get 

t'  be, 
How  much  yer  chairs  an'  tables  cost,  how  great 

yer  luxury; 
It  ain't  home  t'  ye,  though  it  be  the  palace  of  a 

king, 
Until  somehow  yer  soul  is  sort  o'  wrapped  round 

everything. 

Home  ain't  a  place  that  gold  can  buy  or  get  up 

in  a  minute; 
Afore  it's  home  there's  got  t'  be  a  heap  o'  livin' 

in  it; 
Within  the  walls  there's  got  t'  be  some  babies 

born,  and  then 
Right  there  ye've  got  t'  bring  'em  up  t'  women 

good,  an'  men; 
And    gradjerly,    as   time   goes   on,    ye    find   ye 

wouldn't  part 


28 


•With  anything  they  ever  used  —  they've  grown 
into  yer  heart: 

The  old  high  chairs,  the  playthings,  too,  the 
little  shoes  they  wore 

Ye  hoard;  an'  if  ye  could  ye'd  keep  the  thumb- 
marks  on  the  door. 

Ye've  got  t'  weep  t'  make  it  home,  ye've  got  t' 

sit  an'  sigh 
Anr  watch  beside  a  loved  one's  bed,  an'  know 

that  Death  is  nigh; 
An'  in  the  stillness  o'  the  night  t'  see  Death's 

angel  come, 
An'  close  the  eyes  o'  her  that  smiled,  an'  leave 

her  sweet  voice  dumb. 
Fer  these   are   scenes   that   grip   the   heart,   an' 

when  yer  tears  are  dried, 
Ye  find  the   home   is  dearer  than   it  was,   an' 

sanctified ; 
An'    tuggin'    at    ye    always    are    the    pleasant 

memories 
O'  her  that  was  an'  is  no  more  —  ye  can't  escape 

from  these. 

Ye've  got  t'  sing  an'  dance  fer  years,  ye've  got 

t'  romp  an'  play, 
An'  learn  t'  love  the  things  ye  have  by  usin'  'em 

each  day; 
Even  the  roses  'round  the  porch  must  blossom 

year  by  year 

29 


Afore    they    'come    a    part    o'    ye,    suggestin' 

someone  dear 
Who  used  t'  love  'em  long  ago,  an'  trained  'em 

jes'  t'  run 
The  way  they  do,  so's  they  would  get  the  early 

mornin'  sun; 
Ye've   got   t'    love   each   brick   an'    stone    from 

cellar  up  t'  dome: 
It  takes  a  heap  o'  livin'  in  a  house  t'  make  it 

home. 


THE  PATH  THAT  LEADS  TO  HOME 

The  little  path  that  leads  to  home, 

That  is  the  road  for  me, 
I  know  no  finer  path  to  roam, 

With  finer  sights  to  see. 
With  thoroughfares  the  world  is  lined 

That  lead  to  wonders  new, 
But  he  who  treads  them  leaves  behind 

The  tender  things  and  true. 

Oh,  north  and  south  and  east  and  west 

The  crowded  roadways  go, 
And  sweating  brow  and  weary  breast 

Are  all  they  seem  to  know. 
And  mad  for  pleasure  some  are  bent, 

And  some  are  seeking  fame, 
30 


And   some  are  sick  with  discontent, 
And  some  are  bruised  and  lame. 

Across  the  world  the  gleaming  steel 

Holds  out  its  lure  for  men, 
But  no  one  finds  his  comfort  real 

Till  he  comes  home  again. 
And  charted  lanes  now  line  the  sea 

For  weary  hearts  to  roam, 
But,  Oh,  the  finest  path  to  me 

Is  that  which  leads  to  home. 

'Tis  there  I  come  to  laughing  eyes 

And  find  a  welcome  true; 
'Tis  there  all  care  behind  me  lies 

And  joy  is  ever  new. 
And,  Oh,  when  every  day  is  done 

Upon  that  little  street, 
A  pair  of  rosy  youngsters  run 

To  me  with  flying  feet. 

The  world  with  myriad  paths  is  lined 

But  one  alone  for  me, 
One  little  road  where  I  may  find 

The  charms  I  want  to  see. 
Though  thoroughfares  majestic  call 

The  multitude  to  roam, 
I  would  not  leave,  to  know  them  all, 

The  path  that  leads  to  home. 


A  FRIEND'S  GREETING 

I'd  like  to  be  the  sort  of  friend  that  you  have 

been  to  me; 
I'd  like  to  be  the  help  that  you've  been  always 

glad  to  be; 
I'd  like  to  mean  as  much  to  you  each  minute 

of  the  day 
As  you  have  meant,  old  friend  of  mine,  to  me 

along  the  way. 

I'd  like  to  do  the  big  things  and  the  splendid 

things  for  you, 
To   brush   the    gray    from   out   your   skies   and 

leave  them  only  blue; 
I'd  like  to  say  the  kindly  things  that  I  so  oft 

have  heard, 
And  feel  that  I  could  rouse  your  soul  the  way 

that  mine  you've  stirred. 

I'd  like  to  give  you  back  the  joy  that  you  have 

given  me, 
Yet  that  were  wishing  you  a  need  I  hope  will 

never  be; 
I'd  like  to  make  you  feel  as  rich  as  I,  who 

travel  on 
Undaunted  in  the  darkest  hours  with  you  to 

lean  upon. 


I'm  wishing  at  this  Christmas  time  that  I  could 

but  repay 
A  portion  of  the  gladness  that  you've   strewn 

along  my  way; 
And  could  I  have  one  wish  this  year,  this  oniv 

would  it  be : 
I'd  like  to  be  the  sort  of  friend  that  you  have 

been  to  me. 


A  SONG 

None   knows  the   day   that   friends   must  part- 

None  knows  how  near  is  sorrow; 
If  there  be  laughter  in  your  heart, 

Don't   hold   it   for  to-morrow. 
Smile  all  the  smiles  you  can  to-day; 
Grief  waits  for  all  along  the  way. 

To-day  is  ours  for  joy  and  mirth; 

We  may  be  sad  to-morrow ; 
Then  let  us  sing  for  all  we're  worth, 

Nor  give  a  thought  to  sorrow. 
None  knows  what  lies  along  the  way; 
Let's  smile  what  smiles  we  can  to-day. 


33 


OLD  FRIENDS 

I  do  not  say  new  friends  are  not  considerate  and 

true, 
Or  that  their  smiles  ain't  genuine,  but  still  I'm 

tellin'  you 
That  when  a  feller's  heart  is  crushed  and  achin' 

with  the  pain, 
And  teardrops  come  a-splashin'  down  his  cheeks 

like  summer  rain, 
Becoz    his   grief   an'    loneliness   are   more    than 

he  can  bear, 
Somehow  it's  only  old  friends,  then,  that  really 

seem  to  care. 
The    friends    who've    stuck    through    thick    an' 

thin,  who've  known  you,  good  an'  bad, 
Your  faults  an'  virtues,  an'  have  seen  the  strug 
gles  you  have  had, 
When   they    come   to   you   gentle-like    an'    take 

your  hand  an'  say: 
"  Cheer  up !  we're  with  you  still,"  it  counts,  for 

that's  the  old  friends'  way. 

The  new  friends  may  be  fond  of  you  for  what 

you  are  to-day; 
They've  only  known  you  rich,  perhaps,  an'  only 

seen  you  gay ; 
You    can't    tell    what's    attracted    them;    your 

station  may  appeal; 


34 


Perhaps  they  smile  on  you  because  you're  doin' 

something  real; 
But  old  friends  who  have  seen  you  fail,  an'  also 

seen  you  win, 
Who've   loved   you   either   up    or   down,    stuck 

to  you,  thick  or  thin, 
Who  knew  you  as  a  budding  youth,  an'  watched 

you  start  to  climb, 
Through  weal  an'   woe,   still   friends  of  yours 

an'   constant  all  the  time, 
When    trouble   comes   an'    things    go    wrong,    I 

don't  care  what  you  say, 
They   are   the    friends  you'll   turn  to,    for  you 

want  the  old  friends'  way. 

The  new  friends  may  be  richer,  an'  more  stylish, 

too,  but  when 
Your   heart   is   achin'   an'   you   think   your   sun 

won't  shine  again, 
It's  not  the  riches  of  new  friends  you  want,  it's 

not  their  style, 
It's  not  the  airs  of  grandeur  then,  it's  just  the 

old  friend's  smile, 
The  old  hand  that  has  helped  before,  stretched 

out  once  more  to  you, 
The  old  words  ringin'  in  your  ears,  so  sweet  an', 

Oh,  so  true ! 
The  tenderness  of   folks  who  know  just  what 

your  sorrow  means, 


35 


These  are  the  things  on  which,  somehow,  your 

spirit  always  leans. 
When   grief    is   poundin'    at   your   breast  —  the 

new  friends  disappear 
An'  to  the  old  ones  tried  an'  true,  you  turn  for 

aid  an'  cheer. 


FOLKS 

We  was  speakin'  of  folks,  jes'  common  folks, 

An'  we  come  to  this  conclusion, 
That  wherever  they  be,  on  land  or  sea, 

They  warm  to  a  home  allusion; 
That  under  the  skin  an'  under  the  hide 

There's  a  spark  that  starts  a-glowin' 
Whenever  they  look  at  a  scene  or  book 

That  something  of  home  is  showin'. 

They  may  differ  in  creeds  an'  politics, 

They  may  argue  an'  even  quarrel, 
But   their   throats   grip   tight,    if    they   catch 
sight 

Of  their  favorite  elm  or  laurel. 
An'  the  winding  lane  that  they  used  to  tread 

With  never  a  care  to  fret  'em, 
Or  the  pasture  gate  where  they  used  to  wait, 

Right  under  the  skin  will  get  'em. 


Now  folks  is  folks  on  their  different  ways, 

With  their  different  griefs  an'  pleasures, 
But  the  home  they  knew,  when  their  years  were 
few, 

Is  the  dearest  of  all  their  treasures. 
An'  the  richest  man  to  the  poorest  waif 

Right  under  the  skin  is  brother 
When  they  stand  an'  sigh,  with  a  tear-dimmed 
eye, 

At  a  thought  of  the  dear  old  mother. 

It  makes  no  difference  where  it  may  be, 

Nor  the  fortunes  that  years  may  alter, 
Be  they  simple  or  wise,  the  old  home  ties 

Make  all  of  'em  often  falter. 
Time  may  robe  'em  in  sackcloth  coarse 

Or  garb  'em  in  gorgeous  splendor, 
But  whatever  their  lot,  they  keep  one  spot 

Down  deep  that  is  sweet  an'  tender. 

We  was  speakin'  of  folks,  jes'  common  folks, 

An'  we  come  to  this  conclusion, 
That  one  an'  all,  be  they  great  or  small, 

Will  warm  to  a  home  allusion; 
That  under  the  skin  an'  the  beaten  hide 

They're  kin  in  a  real  affection 
For  the  joys  they  knew,  when  their  years  were 
few, 

An'  the  home  of  their  recollection. 


37 


LITTLE  MASTER  MISCHIEVOUS 

Little  Master  Mischievous,  that's  the  name  for 

you; 
There's  no  better  title  that  describes  the  things 

you  do: 
Into     something     all     the     while     where     you 

shouldn't  be, 

Prying  into  matters  that  are  not  for  you  to  see; 
Little  Master  Mischievous,  order's  overthrown 
If   your   mother    leaves   you    for   a    minute    all 

alone. 

Little  Master  Mischievous,  opening  every  door, 

Spilling  books  and  papers  round  about  the  parlor 
floor, 

Scratching  all  the  tables  and  marring  all  the 
chairs, 

Climbing  where  you  shouldn't  climb  and  tum 
bling  down  the  stairs. 

How'd  you  get  the  ink  well?  We  can  never 
guess. 

Now  the  rug  is  ruined;  so's  your  little  dress. 

Little  Master  Mischievous,  in  the  cookie  jar, 
Who  has  ever  told  you  where  the  cookies  are? 
Now  your  sticky  fingers  smear  the  curtains 

white ; 
You    have    finger-printed    everything    in    sight. 


There's  no  use  in  scolding;  when  you  smile  that 

way 
You  can  rob '  of  terror  every  word  we  say. 

Little  Master  Mischievous,  that's  the  name  for 

you; 
There's  no  better  title  that  describes  the  things 

you  do: 

Prying  into  corners,  peering  into  nooks, 
Tugging  table  covers,  tearing  costly  books. 
Little    Master   Mischievous,    have   your   roguish 

way; 
Time,  I  know,  will  stop  you,  soon  enough  some 

day. 


OPPORTUNITY 

So  long  as  men  shall  be  on  earth 
There  will  be  tasks  for  them  to  do, 

Some  way  for  them  to  show  their  worth; 
Each  day  shall  bring  its  problems  new. 

And  men  shall  dream  of  mightier  deeds 
Than  ever  have  been  done  before: 

There  always  shall  be  human  needs 
For  men  to  work  and  struggle  for. 


39 


THE  SORROW  TUGS 

There's  a  lot  of  joy  in  the  smiling  world, 
there's  plenty  of  morning  sun, 

And  laughter  and  songs  and  dances,  too,  when 
ever  the  day's  work's  done ; 

Full  many  an  hour  is  a  shining  one,  when 
viewed  by  itself  apart, 

But  the  golden  threads  in  the  warp  of  life  are 
the  sorrow  tugs  at  your  heart. 

Oh,  the   fun  is  froth  and  it  blows  away,   and 

many  a  joy's  forgot, 
And  the  pleasures  come  and  the  pleasures  go, 

and  memory  holds  them  not ; 
But  treasured  ever  you  keep  the  pain  that  causes 

your  tears  to  start, 
For  the  sweetest  hours  are  the  ones  that  bring 

the  sorrow  tugs  at  your  heart. 

The  lump  in  your  throat  and  the  little  sigh  when 

your  baby  trudged  away 
The  very  first  time  to  the  big  red  school  —  how 

long  will  their  memory  stay? 
The  fever  days  and  the  long  black  nights  you 

watched  as  she  troubled,  slept, 
And   the  joy   you    felt   when   she   smiled   once 

more  —  how  long  will  that  all  be  kept? 


40 


The  glad  hours  live  in  a  feeble  way,  but  the  sad 

ones  never   die. 
His  first  long  trousers  caused  a  pang  and  you 

saw  them  with  a  sigh. 
And  the  big  still  house  when  the  boy  and  girl, 

unto  youth  and  beauty  grown, 
To  college  went;  will  you  e'er  forget  that  first 

grim  hour  alone? 

It  seems  as  you  look  back  over  things,  that  all 

that  you  treasure  dear 
Is  somehow  blent  in  a  wondrous  way  with  a 

heart  pang  and  a  tear. 
Though    many    a    day    is   a    joyous    one    when 

viewed  by  itself  apart, 
The  golden  threads  in  the  warp  of  life  are  the 

sorrow  tugs  at  your  heart. 


ONLY    A    DAD 

Only  a  dad  with  a  tired  face, 

Coming  home   from  the  daily  race, 

Bringing  little   of   gold   or   fame 

To   show   how   well   he   has   played   the   game; 

But  glad  in  his  heart  that  his  own  rejoice 

To  see  him  come  and  to  hear  his  voice. 

Only  a  dad  with  a  brood  of  four, 
One  of  ten  million  men  or  more 
Plodding  along  in  the  daily  strife, 
Bearing  the  whips  and  the  scorns  of  life, 
With  never  a  whimper  of  pain  or  hate, 
For  the  sake  of  those  who  at  home  await. 

Only  a  dad,  neither  rich  nor  proud, 
Merely  one  of  the  surging  crowd, 
Toiling,   striving  from  day  to  day, 
Facing  whatever  may  come  his  way, 
Silent  whenever  the  harsh  condemn, 
And  bearing  it  all  for  the  love  of  them. 

Only  a  dad  but  he  gives  his  all, 

To    smooth    the    way    for    his    children    small, 

Doing  with  courage  stern  and  grim 

The  deeds  that  his  father  did  for  him. 

This  is  the  line  that  for  him  I  pen: 

Only  a  dad,  but  the  best  of  men. 


42 


HARD  KNOCKS 

I'm   not  the   man   to   say  that    failure's   sweet, 

Nor    tell    a    chap    to    laugh    when    things    go 

wrong ; 
I  know  it  hurts  to  have  to  take  defeat 

An'   no   one   likes   to   lose  before   a   throng; 
It    isn't   very   pleasant   not   to    win 

When  you  have  done  the  very  best  you  could ; 
But  if  you're  down,  get  up  an'  buckle  in  — 

A  lickin'  often  does  a  fellow  good. 

I've    seen    some   chaps   who   never   knew   their 
power 

Until  somebody  knocked  'em  to  the  floor; 
I've   known   men   who   discovered   in   an   hour 

A  courage  they  had  never  shown  before. 
I've  seen  'em  rise  from  failure  to  the  top 

By  doin'  things  they  hadn't  understood 
Before  the  day  disaster  made  'em  drop  — 

A  lickin'  often  does  a  fellow  good. 

Success  is  not  the  teacher,  wise  an'  true, 

That  gruff  old  failure  is,  remember  that; 
She's  much  too  apt  to  make  a  fool  of  you, 

Which  isn't  true  of  blows  that  knock  you  flat. 
Hard  knocks  are  painful  things  an'  hard  to  bear, 

An'  most  of  us  would  dodge  'em  if  we  could; 
There's  something  mighty  broadening  in  care  — 

A  lickin'  often  does  a  fellow  good. 

43 


SPRING  IN  THE  TRENCHES 

It's  coming  time  for  planting  in  that  little  patch 

of  ground, 
Where  the  lad  and  I  made  merry  as  he  followed 

me  around; 
Now  the   sun  is  getting  higher,   and  the   skies 

above  are  blue, 
And  I'm  hungry  for  the  garden,  and  I  wish  the 

war  was  through. 
But   it's  tramp,   tramp,   tramp, 

And  it's  never  look  behind, 
And  when  you  see  a  stranger's  kids 

Pretend  that  you  are  blind. 

The    spring    is    coming    back    again,    the    birds 

begin  to  mate; 
The  skies  are  full  of  kindness,  but  the  world  is 

full  of  hate. 
And  it's  I  that  should  be  bending  now  in  peace 

above  the  soil 
With   laughing  eyes   and   little   hands   about   to 

bless  the  toil. 
But   it's   fight,    fight,    fight, 

And  it's  charge  at  double-quick; 
A  soldier  thinking  thoughts  of  home 

Is  one  more  soldier  sick. 


44 


Last   year   I    brought   the   bulbs   to   bloom   and 

saw  the  roses  bud; 
This  year  I'm  ankle  deep  in  mire,  and  most  of 

it  is  blood. 
Last  year  the  mother  in  the  door  was  glad  as 

she  could  be; 
To-day  her  heart  is   full  of  pain,  and  mine  is 

hurting  me. 
But  it's   shoot,   shoot,   shoot, 

And  when  the  bullets  hiss, 
Don't  let  the  tears  fill  up  your  eyes, 

For  weeping  soldiers  miss. 

Oh,  who  will  tend  the  roses  now  and  who  will 

sow  the  seeds? 
And    who    will    do    the    heavy    work    the    little 

garden    needs  ? 
And  who  will  tell  the  lad  of  mine  the  things 

he  wants  to  know, 
And   take    his   hand    and    lead    him    round    the 

paths  we  used  to  go? 
For  it's  charge,  charge,  charge, 

And  it's  face  the  foe  once  more; 
Forget   the  things   you   love  the  most 

And  keep  your  mind  on  gore. 


45 


FATHER 

Used  to  wonder  just  why  father 

Never  had  much  time  for  play, 
Used  to  wonder  why  he'd  rather 

Work  each  minute  of  the  day. 
Used  to  wonder  why  he  never 

Loafed  along  the  road  an'  shirked; 
Can't  recall  a  time  whenever 

Father  played  while  others  worked. 

Father  didn't  dress  in  fashion, 

Sort  of  hated  clothing  new; 
Style  with  him  was  not  a  passion; 

He  had  other  things  in  view. 
Boys  are  blind  to  much  that's  going 

On  about  'em  day  by  day, 
And  I  had  no  way  of  knowing 

What  became  of  father's  pay. 

All  I  knew  was  when  I  needed 

Shoes  I  got  'em  on  the  spot; 
Everything  for  which  I  pleaded, 

Somehow,    father  always   got. 
Wondered,   season  after  season, 

Why  he  never  took  a  rest, 
And  that  /  might  be  the  reason 

Then  I  never  even  guessed. 


46 


Father  set  a  store  on  knowledge; 

If  he'd  lived  to  have  his  way 
He'd  have  sent  me  off  to  college 

And  the  bills  been  glad  to  pay. 
That,  I  know,  was  his  ambition: 

Now  and  then  he  used  to  say 
He'd  have  done  his  earthly  mission 

On  my  graduation  day. 

Saw  his  cheeks  were  getting  paler, 

Didn't  understand  just  why; 
Saw  his  body  growing  frailer, 

Then  at  last  I  saw  him  die. 
Rest  had  come !    His  tasks  were  ended, 

Calm  was  written  on  his  brow ; 
Father's  life  was  big  and  splendid, 

And  I  understand  it  now. 


47 


LADDIES 

Show  me  the  boy  who  never  threw 

A  stone  at  someone's  cat, 
Or  never  hurled  a  snowball  swift 

At  someone's  high  silk  hat  — 
Who  never  ran  away  from  school, 

To  seek  the  swimming  hole, 
Or  slyly  from  a  neighbor's  yard 

Green  apples  never  stole' — 

Show  me  the  boy  who'  never  broke 

A  pane  of  window  glass, 
Who  never  disobeyed  the  sign 

That  says :  "  Keep  off  the  grass." 
Who  never  did  a  thousand  things, 

That  grieve  us  sore  to  tell, 
And  I'll  show  you  a  little  boy 

Who  must  be  far  from  well. 


48 


THE  LIVING  BEAUTIES 

I  never  knew,  until  they  went, 

How    much    their    laughter    really    meant 

I  never  knew  how  much  the  place 

Depended  on  each  little  face; 

How  barren  home  could  be  and  drear 

Without  its  living  beauties  here. 

I  never  knew  that  chairs  and  books 
Could   wear   such   sad   and   solemn   looks! 
That   rooms   and   halls   could   be   at   night 
So  still  and  drained  of  all  delight. 
This  home  is  now  but  brick  and  board 
Where  bits  of  furniture  are  stored. 

I  used  to  think  I  loved  each  shelf 
And  room  for  what  it  was  itself. 
And  once  I  thought  each  picture  fine 
Because  I  proudly  called  it  mine. 
But  now  I  know  they  mean  no  more 
Than  art  works  hanging  in  a  store. 

Until  they  went  away  to  roam 

I  never  knew  what  made  it  home. 

But  I  have  learned  that  all  is  base, 

However  wonderful  the  place 

And    decked    with    costly    treasures,    rare, 

Unless  the  living  joys  are  there. 


49 


AT  BREAKFAST  TIME 

My  Pa  he  eats  his  breakfast  in  a  funny  sort  of 

way: 
We  hardly  ever  see  him  at  the  first  meal  of  the 

day. 
Ma  puts  his  food  before  him  and  he  settles  in 

his  place 
An'  then  he  props  the  paper  up  and  we  can't 

see  his  face; 
We  hear  him  blow  his  coffee  and  we  hear  him 

chew  his  toast, 
But  it's   for  the  morning  paper  that  he  seems 

to  care  the  most. 

Ma    says    that    little    children    mighty    grateful 

ought  to  be 
To  the  folks  that  fixed  the  evening  as  the  proper 

time  for  tea. 
She  says  if  meals  were  only  served  to  people 

once  a  day, 
An'  that  was  in  the  morning  just  before  Pa  goes 

away, 
We'd  never  know  how  father  looked  when  he 

was  in  his  place, 
Coz  he'd  always  have  the  morning  paper  stuck 

before  his  face. 


He   drinks   his   coffee   steamin'   hot,   an'   passes 

Ma  his  cup 
To  have  it  filled  a  second  time,  an'  never  once 

looks  up. 
He  never  has  a  word  to  say,  but  just  sits  there    , 

an'  reads, 
An'  when  she  sees  his  hand  stuck  out  Ma  gives 

him  what  he  needs. 
She  guesses  what  it  is  he  wants,  coz  it's  no  use 

to  ask: 
Pa's  got  to  read  his  paper  an'  sometimes  that's 

quite  a  task. 

One  morning  we  had  breakfast  an'  his  features 

we  could  see, 
But  his  face  was  long  an'  solemn  an'  he  didn't 

speak  to  me, 
An'  we  couldn't  get  him  laughin'  an'  we  couldn't 

make  him  smile, 
An'  he  said  the  toast  was  soggy  an'  the  coffee 

simply  vile. 
Then  Ma  said:  "What's  the  matter?     Why  are 

you  so  cross  an'  glum  ?  " 
An'  Pa  'most  took  her  head  off  coz  the  paper 

didn't  come. 


CAN'T 

Can't    is    the    worst    word    that's    written    or 

spoken ; 

Doing  more  harm  here  than  slander  and  lies; 
On  it  is  many  a  strong  spirit  broken, 

And  with  it  many  a  good  purpose  dies. 
It  springs  from  the  lips  of  the  thoughtless  each 

morning 
And  robs  us  of  courage  we  need  through  the 

day: 

It  rings  in  our  ears  like  a  timely-sent  warning 
And  laughs  when  we  falter  and  fall  by  the 
way. 

Can't  is  the  father  of  feeble  endeavor, 

The  parent  of  terror  and  half-hearted  work; 
It  weakens  the  efforts  of  artisans  clever, 

And  makes  of  the  toiler  an  indolent  shirk. 
It  poisons  the  soul  of  the  man  with  a  vision, 

It  stifles  in  infancy  many  a  plan; 
It  greets  honest  toiling  with  open  derision 

And  mocks  at  the  hopes  and  the  dreams  of  a 
man. 

Can't   is   a   word    none    should    speak   without 

blushing ; 

To  utter  it  should  be  a  symbol  of  shame ; 
Ambition  and  courage  it  daily  is  crushing; 


It  blights  a  man's  purpose  and  shortens  his 

aim. 
Despise  it  with  all  of  your  hatred  of  error; 

Refuse  it  the  lodgment  it  seeks  in  your  brain; 
Arm  against  it  as  a  creature  of  terror, 

And  all  that  you  dream  of  you  some  day  shall 
gain. 

Can't  is  the  word  that  is  foe  to  ambition, 

An  enemy  ambushed  to  shatter  your  will; 
Its  prey  is  forever  the  man  with  a  mission 

And  bows  but  to  courage  and  patience  and 

skill. 
Hate  it,  with  hatred  that's  deep  and  undying, 

For   once    it    is   welcomed    'twill   break    any 

man; 
Whatever  the  goal  you  are  seeking,  keep  trying 

And  answer  this  demon  by  saying :    "  I  can." 


53 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Written    July    22,    1916,    when    the 
world   lost  its  "Poet   of  Childhood." 

There   must   be   great   rejoicin'   on   the   Golden 

Shore  to-day, 
An'   the   big   an'    little   angels   must   be    feelin' 

mighty  gay: 
Could  we  look  beyond  the  curtain  now  I  fancy 

we  should  see 
Old  Aunt  Mary  waitin',  smilin',  for  the  coming 

that's  to  be, 
An'  Little  Orphant  Annie  an'  the  whole  excited 

pack 
Dancin'  up  an'  down  an'  shoutin' :    "  Mr.  Riley's 

comin'  back !  " 

There's  a  heap  o'  real  sadness  in  this  good  old 

world  to-day; 
There  are  lumpy  throats  this  morning  now  that 

Riley's  gone  away; 
There's    a    voice    now    stilled    forever    that    in 

sweetness  only  spoke 
An'  whispered  words  of  courage  with  a  faith  that 

never  broke. 
There   is   much   of   joy   and   laughter   that   we 

mortals   here   will   lack, 
But  the  angels  must  be  happy  now  that  Riley's 

comin'  back. 


54 


The   world   was  gettin'   dreary,   there   was   too 

much  sigh  an'  frown 
In  this  vale  o'  mortal  strivin',  so  God  sent  Jim 

Riley  down, 
An'  He  said :    "  Go  there  an'  cheer  'em  in  your 

good  old-fashioned  way, 
With  your  songs  of  tender  sweetness,  but  don't 

make  your  plans  to  stay, 
Coz  you're  needed  up  in  Heaven.     I  am  lendin' 

you  to  men 
Just  to  help  'em  with  your  music,  but  I'll  want 

you  back  again." 

An'  Riley  came,  an'  mortals  heard  the  music  of 

his  voice 
An*  they  caught  his  songs  o'   beauty  an'  they 

started  to  rejoice ; 
An'   they   leaned   on   him   in   sorrow,   an'   they 

shared  with  him  their  joys, 
An'  they  walked  with  him  the  pathways  that 

they  knew  when  they  were  boys. 
But  the  heavenly  angels  missed  him,  missed  his 

tender,   gentle  knack 
Of  makin'  people  happy,  an'  they  wanted  Riley 

back. 

There  must  be  great  rejoicin'  on  the  streets  of 

Heaven   to-day 
An'    all   the   angel   children   must    be    troopin' 

down  the  way, 

55 


Singin'  heavenly  songs  of  welcome  an'  pre- 
parin'  now  to  greet 

The  soul  that  God  had  tinctured  with  an  ever 
lasting  sweet ; 

The  world  is  robed  in  sadness  an'  is  draped  in 
sombre  black; 

But  joy  must  reign  in  Heaven  now  that  Riley's 
comin'  back. 


RESULTS  AND  ROSES 

The  man  who  wants  a  garden  fair, 

Or  small  or  very  big, 
With  flowers  growing  here  and  there, 

Must  bend  his  back  and  dig. 

The  things  are  mighty  few  on  earth 

That   wishes   can   attain. 
Whate'er  we  want  of  any  worth 

We've  got  to  work  to  gain. 

It  matters  not  what  goal  you  seek 

Its  secret  here  reposes: 
You've  got  to  dig  from  week  to  week 

To  get  Results  or  Roses. 

56 


THE  OTHER  FELLOW 

Are  you  fond  of  your  wife  and  your  children 
fair? 

So  is  the  other  fellow. 
Do    you    crave   pleasures    for   them    to    share? 

So  does  the  other  fellow. 
Does   your   heart   rejoice   when   your   own   are 

glad? 

And  are  you  troubled  when  they  are  sad? 
Well,  it's  that  way,  too,  in  this  life,  my  lad, 

That  way  with  the  other  fellow. 

Do  you  want  the  best  for  your  own  to  know? 

So  does  the  other  fellow. 
Do  you  stoop  to  kiss  them  before  you  go? 

So  does  the  other  fellow. 
When  your  baby  lies  on  a  fevered  bed, 
Does  your  heart  run  cold  with  a  silent  dread? 
Well,  it's  that  way,  too,  where  all  mortals  tread — 

That  way  with  the  other  fellow. 

Does  it  hurt  when  they  want  what  you  cannot 
buy? 

It  does  with  the  other  fellow. 
Do  you  for  their  comfort  yourself  deny? 

So  does  the  other  fellow. 

Would  you  wail  aloud  if  your  babe  should  die 
For  the  lack  of  care  you  could  not  supply? 
Well,  it's  that  way,  too,  as  he  travels  by, 

That  way  with  the  other  fellow. 
57 


OUR  DUTY  TO  OUR  FLAG 

Less  hate  and  greed 

Is  what  we  need 

And  more  of  service  true ; 

More  men  to  love 

The  flag  above 

And  keep  it  first  in  view. 

Less  boast  and  brag 

About  the  flag, 

More  faith  in  what  it  means; 

More  heads  erect, 

More  self-respect, 

Less  talk  of  war  machines. 

The  time  to  fight 

To  keep  it  bright 

Is  not  along  the  way, 

Nor  'cross  the  foam, 

But  here  at  home 

Within  ourselves  —  to-day. 

'Tis  we  must  love 

That  flag  above 

With  all  our  might  and  main ; 

For  from  our  hands, 

Not  distant  lands, 

Shall  come  dishonor's  stain. 

58 


If  that  flag  be 

Dishonored,    we 

Have  done  it,  not  the  foe; 

If  it  shall  fall 

We  first  of  all 

Shall  be  to  strike  a  blow. 


THE    HUNTER 

Cheek  that  is  tanned  to  the  wind  of  the  north, 

Body  that  jests  at  the  bite  of  the  cold, 
Limbs  that  are  eager  and  strong  to  go  forth 

Into  the  wilds  and  the  ways  of  the  bold; 
Red  blood  that  pulses  and  throbs  in  the  veins, 

Ears  that  love  silences  better  than  noise; 
Strength  of  the  forest  and  health  of  the  plains: 

These  the  rewards  that  the  hunter  enjoys. 

Forests  were  ever  the  cradles  of  men; 

Manhood  is  born  of  a  kinship  with  trees. 
Whence    shall    come    brave    hearts    and    stout 
muscles,  when 

Woods  have  made  way  for  our  cities  of  ease? 
Oh,  do  you  wonder  that  stalwarts  return 

Yearly  to  hark  to  the  whispering  oaks? 
'Tis  for  the  brave  days  of  old  that  they  yearn: 

These  are  the  splendors  the  hunter  invokes. 

59 


IT'S  SEPTEMBER 

It's  September,  and  the  orchards  are  afire  with 
red  and  gold, 

And  the  nights  with  dew  are  heavy,  and  the 
morning's  sharp  with  cold; 

Now  the  garden's  at  its  gayest  with  the  salvia 
blazing  red 

And  the  good  old-fashioned  asters  laughing 
at  us  from  their  bed; 

Once  again  in  shoes  and  stockings  are  the  chil 
dren's  little  feet, 

And  the  dog  now  does  his  snoozing  on  the 
bright  side  of  the  street. 

It's  September,  and  the  cornstalks  are  as  high 
as  they  will  go, 

And  the  red  cheeks  of  the  apples  everywhere 
begin  to  show; 

Now  the  supper's  scarcely  over  ere  the  dark 
ness  settles  down 

And  the  moon  looms  big  and  yellow  at  the 
edges  of  the  town; 

Oh,  it's  good  to  see  the  children,  when  their 
little  prayers  are  said, 

Duck  beneath  the  patchwork  covers  when  they 
tumble  into  bed. 


60 


It's  September,  and  a  calmness  and  a  sweetness 

seem  to  fall 
Over  everything  that's  living,  just  as  though  it 

hears  the  call 
Of  Old  Winter,  trudging  slowly,  with  his  pack 

of  ice  and  snow, 
In  the   distance   over  yonder,   and   it   somehow 

seems  as  though 
Every  tiny  little  blossom  wants  to  look  its  very 

best 
When  the  frost  shall  bite  its  petals  and  it  droops 

away  to  rest. 

It's  September!  It's  the  fullness  and  the  ripe 
ness  of  the  year; 

All  the  work  of  earth  is  finished,  or  the  final 
tasks  are  near, 

But  there  is  no  doleful  wailing;  every  living 
thing  that  grows, 

For  the  end  that  is  approaching  wears  the 
finest  garb  it  knows. 

And  I  pray  that  I  may  proudly  hold  my  head 
up  high  and  smile 

When  I  come  to  my  September  in  the  golden 
afterwhile. 


61 


HOW  DO  YOU  TACKLE  YOUR  WORK? 

How  do  you  tackle  your  work  each  day? 

Are  you  scared  of  the  job  you  find? 
Do  you  grapple  the  task  that  comes  your  way 

With  a  confident,  easy  mind? 
Do  you  stand  right  up  to  the  work  ahead 

Or    fearfully   pause   to   view   it? 
Do  you  start  to  toil  with  a  sense  of  dread 

Or  feel  that  you're  going  to  do  it? 

You  can  do  as  much  as  you  think  you  can, 

But  you'll  never  accomplish  more; 
If  you're  afraid  of  yourself,  young  man, 

There's  little  for  you  in  store. 
For    failure   comes    from   the   inside   first, 

It's  there  if  we  only  knew  it, 
And  you  can  win,  though  you  face  the  worst, 

If  you  feel  that  you're  going  to  do  it. 

Success!  It's  found  in  the  soul  of  you, 

And  not  in  the  realm  of  luck! 
The  world  will  furnish  the  work  to  do, 

But  you  must  provide  the  pluck. 
You  can  do  whatever  you  think  you  can, 

It's  all  in  the  way  you  view  it. 
It's  all  in  the  start  that  you  make,  young  man: 

You  must  feel  that  you're  going  to  do  it. 


62 


How  do  you  tackle  your  work  each  day? 

With  confidence  clear,  or  dread? 
What  to  yourself  do  you  stop  and  say 

When  a  new  task  lies  ahead? 
What  is  the  thought  that  is  in  your  mind? 

Is  fear  ever  running  through  it? 
If  so,  just  tackle  the  next  you  find 

By  thinking  you're  going  to  do  it. 


LIFE 

Life  is  a  gift  to  be  used  every  day, 
Not  to  be  smothered  and  hidden  away; 
It  isn't  a  thing  to  be  stored  in  the  chest 
Where  you  gather  your  keepsakes  and  treasure 

your  best; 

It  isn't  a  joy  to  be  sipped  now  and  then 
And  promptly  put  back  in  a  dark  place  again. 

Life  is  a  gift  that  the  humblest  may  boast  of 
And  one  that  the  humblest  may  well  make  the 

most  of. 

Get  out  and  live  it  each  hour  of  the  day, 
Wear  it  and  use  it  as  much  as  you  may; 
Don't  keep  it  in  niches  and  corners  and  grooves, 
You'll  find  that  in  service  its  beauty  improves. 


STORY  TELLING 

Most  every  night  when  they're  in  bed, 
And  both  their  little  prayers  have  said, 
They  shout   for  me  to  come  upstairs 
And  tell  them  tales  of  grizzly  bears, 
And   Indians   and   gypsies   bold, 
And  eagles  with  the  claws  that  hold 
A  baby's  weight,  and  fairy  sprites 
That  roam  the  woods  on  starry  nights. 

And  I  must  illustrate  these  tales, 

Must   imitate  the  northern   gales 

That   toss   the   Indian's   canoe, 

And  show  the  way  he  paddles,  too. 

If  in  the  story  comes  a  bear, 

I  have  to  pause  and  sniff  the  air 

And  show  the  way  he  climbs  the  trees 

To  steal  the  honey  from  the  bees. 

And  then  I  buzz  like  angry  bees 
And  sting  him  on  his  nose  and  knees 
And  howl  in  pain,  till  mother  cries: 
"  That  pair  will  never  shut  their  eyes, 
While  all  that  noise  up  there  you  make; 
You're   simply  keeping  them   awake." 
And  then  they  whisper :    "  Just  one  more,' 
And  once  again  I'm  forced  to  roar. 


64 


New  stories  every  night  they  ask, 

And  that  is  not  an  easy  task; 

I  have  to  be  so  many  things, 

The  frog  that  croaks,  the  lark  that  sings, 

The  cunning  fox,  the  frightened  hen; 

But  just  last  night  they  stumped  me,  when 

They  wanted  me  to  twist  and  squirm 

And  imitate  an  angle   worm. 

At  last  they  tumble  off  to  sleep, 
And  softly  from  their  room  I  creep 
And  brush  and  comb  the  shock  of  hair 
I  tossed  about  to  be  a  bear. 
Then  mother  says :    "  Well,  I  should  say 
You're  just  as  much  a  child  as  they." 
But  you  can  bet  I'll  not  resign 
That  story  telling  job  of  mine. 


CANNING  TIME 

There's  a  wondrous  smell  of  spices 

In  the  kitchen, 

Most  bewitchin'; 
There  are  fruits  cut  into  slices 
That  just  set  the  palate  itchin' ; 
There's  the  sound  of  spoon  on  platter 
And  the  rattle  and  the  clatter; 
And  a  bunch  of  kids  are  hastin' 
To  the  splendid  joy  of  tastin' : 
It's  the   fragrant  time  of  year 
When    fruit-cannin'    days   are   here. 

There's  a  good  wife  gayly  smilin' 

And  perspirin' 

Some,  and  tirin' ; 
And  while  jar  on  jar  she's  pilin' 
And  the  necks  o'  them  she's  wirin' 
I'm  a-sittin'  here  an'  dreamin' 
Of  the  kettles  that  are  steamin', 
And  the  cares  that  have  been  troublin' 
All  have  vanished  in  the  bubblin'. 
I  am  happy  that  I'm  here 
At  the  cannin'  time  of  year. 

Lord,  I'm  sorry  for  the  feller 

That  is  missin' 

All  the  hissin' 

Of  the  juices,  red  and  yeller, 
66 


And  can  never  sit  and  listen 

To  the  rattle  and  the  clatter 

Of  the  sound  of  spoon  on  platter. 

I  am  sorry  for  the  single, 

For  they  miss  the  thrill  and  tingle 

Of  the  splendid  time  of  year 

When  the  cannin'  days  are  here. 


THE  DULL  ROAD 

It's  the  dull  road  that  leads  to  the  gay  road; 

The  practice  that  leads  to  success; 
The  work  road  that  leads  to  the  play  road; 

It  is  trouble  that  breeds  happiness. 

It's  the  hard  work  and  merciless  grinding 

That  purchases  glory  and  fame; 
It's   repeatedly   doing,   nor   minding 

The  drudgery  drear  of  the  game. 

It's  the  passing  up  glamor  or  pleasure 
For  the  sake  of  the  skill  we  may  gain, 

And  in  giving  up  comfort  or  leisure 
For  the  joy  that  we  hope  to  attain. 

It's  the  hard  road  of  trying  and  learning, 

Of  toiling,  uncheered  and  alone, 
That  wins  us  the  prizes  worth  earning, 

And  leads  us  to  goals  we  would  own. 
67 


THE  APPLE  TREE 

When  an  apple  tree  is  ready  for  the  world  to 

come  and  eat, 
There    isn't    any    structure    in    the    land    that's 

"  got  it  beat." 
There's    nothing    man    has    builded    with    the 

beauty  or  the  charm 
That    can   touch    the    simple    grandeur    of    the 

monarch  of  the  farm. 
There's    never    any    picture     from    a    human 

being's   brush 
That  has  ever  caught  the  redness  of  a  single 

apple's  blush. 

When  an  apple  tree's  in  blossom  it  is  glorious 

to  see, 
But   that's   just   a    hint,    at   springtime,    of   the 

better  things  to  be; 
That   is  just  a    fairy  promise   from  the   Great 

Magician's  wand 
Of    the    wonders    and    the    splendors    that    are 

waiting  just  beyond 
The  distant  edge   of   summer;  just   a   forecast 

of  the  treat 
When  the   apple   tree   is   ready   for  the   world 

to  come  and  eat. 


68 


Architects  of  splendid  vision  long  have  labored 

on  the  earth, 
And   have   raised   their   dreams   in   marble   and 

we've  marveled  at  their  worth; 
Long  the  spires  of  costly  churches  have  looked 

upward  at  the  sky; 
Rich  in  promise  and  in  the  beauty,  they  have 

cheered  the  passer-by. 
But  I'm  sure  there's  nothing  finer  for  the  eye 

of  man  to  meet 
Than  an  apple  tree  that's  ready  for  the  world 

to  come  and  eat. 

There's    the    promise    of    the    apples,    red    and 

gleaming  in  the  sun, 
Like  the  medals  worn  by  mortals  as   rewards 

for  labors  done; 
And  the  big  arms  stretched  wide  open,  with  a 

welcome  warm  and  true 
In  a  way  that  sets  you  thinking  it's  intended 

just  for  you. 
There  is  nothing  with  a  beauty  so  entrancing, 

so  complete, 
As  an  apple  tree  that's  ready  for  the  world  to 

come  and  eat. 


69 


THE  HOME-TOWN 

Some  folks  leave  home  for  money 

And  some  leave  home  for  fame, 
Some  seek  skies  always  sunny, 

And  some  depart  in  shame. 
I  care  not  what  the  reason 

Men  travel  east  or  west, 
Or  what  the  month  or  season  — 

The  home-town  is  the  best. 

The  home-town  is  the  glad  town 

Where  something  real  abides; 
'Tis  not  the  money-mad  town 

That  all  its  spirit  hides. 
Though  strangers  scoff  and  flout  it 

And  even  jeer  its  name, 
It  has  a  charm  about  it 

No  other  town  can  claim. 

The  home-town  skies  seem  bluer 

Than  skies  that  stretch  away. 
The  home-town  friends  seem  truer 

And  kinder  through  the  day; 
And  whether  glum  or  cheery 

Light-hearted  or  depressed, 
Or  struggle-fit  or  weary, 

I  like  the  home-town  best. 


70 


Let  him  who  will,  go  wander 

To  distant  towns  to  live, 
Of  some  things  I  am  fonder 

Than  all  they  have  to  give. 
The  gold  of  distant  places 

Could  not  repay  me  quite 
For  those  familiar  faces 

That  keep  the  home-town  bright. 


TAKE  HOME  A  SMILE 

Take    home    a    smile;    forget    the    petty    cares, 
The  dull,  grim  grind  of  all  the  day's  affairs ; 
The  day  is  done,  come  be  yourself  awhile : 
To-night,  to  those  who  wait,  take  home  a  smile. 

Take  home  a  smile ;  don't  scatter  grief  and  gloom 
Where  laughter  and  light  hearts  should  always 

bloom ; 

What  though  you've  traveled  many  a  dusty  mile, 
Footsore  and  weary,  still  take  home  a  smile. 

Take  home  a  smile  —  it  is  not  much  to  do, 
But  much  it  means  to  them  who  wait  for  you; 
You  can  be  brave  for  such  a  little  while; 
The  day  of  doubt  is  done  —  take  home  a  smile 
7i 


COURAGE 

Courage  isn't  a  brilliant  dash, 

A  daring  deed  in  a  moment's  flash; 

It  isn't  an  instantaneous  thing 

Born  of  despair  with  a  sudden  spring 

It  isn't  a  creature  of  flickered  hope 

Or  the  final  tug  at  a  slipping  rope; 

But    it's   something   deep    in   the    soul    of    man 

That    is    working   always   to    serve    some    plan. 

Courage  isn't  the  last  resort 

In  the  work  of  life  or  the  game  of  sport; 

It  isn't  a  thing  that  a  man  can  call 

At    some    future   time   when   he's   apt   to    fall ; 

If  he  hasn't  it  now,  he  will  have  it  not 

When  the  strain  is  great  and  the  pace  is  hot. 

For  who  would  strive  for  a  distant  goal 

Must  always  have  courage  within  his  soul. 

Courage  isn't  a  dazzling  light 

That  flashes  and  passes  away  from  sight; 

It's  a  slow,  unwavering,  ingrained  trait 

With  the  patience  to  work  and  the  strength  to 

wait. 

It's  part  of  a  man  when  his  skies  are  blue, 
It's  part  of  him  when  he  has  work  to  do. 
The  brave  man  never  is  freed  of  it. 
He  has  it  when  there  is  no  need  of  it. 


72 


Courage  was  never  designed   for  show; 

It  isn't  a  thing  that  can  come  and  go; 

It's  written  in  victory  and  defeat 

And  every  trial  a  man  may  meet. 

It's  part  of  his  hours,  his  days  and  his  years, 

Back  of  his  smiles  and  behind  his  tears. 

Courage  is  more  than  a  daring  deed : 

It's  the  breath  of  life  and  a  strong  man's  creed. 


GREATNESS 

We  can  be  great  by  helping  one  another; 

We  can  be  loved  for  very  simple  deeds : 
Who  has  the  grateful  mention  of  a  brother 

Has  really  all  the  honor  that  he  needs. 

We  can  be  famous  for  our  works  of  kindness  — 
Fame  is  not  born  alone  of  strength  or  skill; 

It   sometimes   comes    from   deafness   and    from 

blindness 
To  petty  words  and  faults,  and  loving  still. 

We  can  be  rich  in  gentle  smiles  and  sunny: 
A  jeweled  soul  exceeds  a  royal  crown. 

The  richest  men  sometimes  have  little  money, 
And  Croesus  oft's  the  poorest  man  in  town. 


73 


THE  EPICURE 

I've  sipped  a  rich  man's  sparkling  wine, 

His  silverware  I've  handled. 
I've  placed  these  battered  legs  of  mine 

'Neath  tables  gayly  candled. 
I  dine  on  rare  and  costly  fare 

Whene'er  good  fortune  lets  me, 
But  there's  no  meal  that  can  compare 

With  those  the  missus  gets  me. 

I've  had  your  steaks  three  inches  thick 

With  all  your  Sam  Ward  trimming, 
I've  had  the  breast  of  milk- fed  chick 

In  luscious  gravy  swimming. 
To  dine  in  swell  cafe  or  club 

But  irritates  and  frets  me; 
Give  me  the  plain  and  wholesome  grub  - 

The  grub  the  missus  gets  me. 

Two  kiddies  smiling  at  the  board, 

The  cook  right  at  the  table, 
The  four  of  us,  a  hungry  horde, 

To  beat  that  none  is  able. 
A  big  meat  pie,  with  flaky  crust! 

'Tis  then  that  joy  besets  me; 
Oh,  I  could  eat  until  I  "bust," 

Those  meals  the  missus  gets  me. 


74 


THE  GENTLE  GARDENER 

I'd  like  to  leave  but  daffodills  to  mark  my  little 

way, 
To  leave  but  tulips  red  and  white  behind  me  as 

I  stray; 
I'd  like  to  pass  away  from  earth  and  feel  I'd 

left  behind 
But  roses  and  forget-me-nots  for  all  who  come 

to  find. 

I'd  like  to  sow  the  barren  spots  with  all  the 

flowers  of  earth, 
To  leave  a  path  where  those  who  come  should 

find  but  gentle  mirth; 
And  when  at  last  I'm  called  upon  to  join  the 

heavenly  throng 
I'd  like  to  feel  along  my  way  I'd  left  no  sign 

of  wrong. 

And  yet  the  cares  are  many  and  the  hours  of 

toil  are  few; 
There  is  not  time  enough  on  earth  for  all  I'd 

like  to  do; 
But,  having  lived  and  having  toiled,  I'd  like  the 

world  to  find 
Some  little  touch  of  beauty  that  my  soul  had 

left  behind. 


75 


THE  FINEST  AGE 

When  he  was  only  nine  months  old, 

And   plump   and    round   and   pink   of    cheek, 
A  joy  to  tickle  and  to  hold, 

Before  he'd  even  learned  to  speak, 
His  gentle  mother  used  to  say: 

"  It  is  too  bad  that  he  must  grow. 
If  I  could  only  have  my  way 

His  baby  ways  we'd  always  know." 

And  then  the  year  was  turned,  and  he 

Began  to  toddle  round  the  floor 
And  name  the  things  that  he  could  see 

And  soil  the  dresses  that  he  wore. 
Then  many  a  night  she  whispered  low : 

"  Our  baby  now  is  such  a  joy 
I  hate  to  think  that  he  must  grow 

To  be  a  wild  and  heedless  boy." 

But  on  he  went  and  sweeter  grew, 

And  then  his  mother,  I  recall, 
Wished   she   could  keep   him  always   two, 

For  that's  the  finest  age  of  all. 
She  thought  the  selfsame  thing  at  three, 

And  now  that  he  is  four,  she  sighs 
To  think  he  cannot  always  be 

The  youngster  with  the  laughing  eyes. 


Oh,  little  boy,  my  wish  is  not 

Always  to  keep  you  four  years  old. 
Each  night  I  stand  beside  your  cot 

And  think  of  what  the  years  may  hold; 
And  looking  down  on  you  I  pray 

That  when  we've  lost  our  baby  small, 
The  mother  of  our  man  will  say 

"  This  is  the  finest  age  of  all." 


SUCCESS  AND  FAILURE 

I  do  not  think  all  failure's  undeserved, 
And  all  success  is  merely  someone's  luck; 

Some  men  are  down  because  they  were  unnerved, 
And  some  are  up  because  they  kept  their  pluck. 

Some  men  are  down  because  they  chose  to  shirk ; 

Some  men  are  high  because  they  did  their  work. 

I  do  not  think  that  all  the  poor  are  good, 
That  riches  are  the  uniform  of  shame; 

The  beggar  might  have  conquered  if  he  would, 
And  that  he  begs,  the  world  is  not  to  blame. 

Misfortune  is  not  all  that  comes  to  mar; 

Mo.ct  men,  themselves,  have  shaped  the  things 
they  are. 


77 


CARE-FREE  YOUTH 

The  skies  are  blue  and  the  sun  is  out  and  the 

grass  is  green  and  soft 
And   the   old   charm's   back    in   the    apple   tree 

and  it  calls  a  boy  aloft; 
And  the  same  low  voice  that  the  old  don't  hear, 

but  the  care-free  youngsters  do, 
Is  calling  them  to  the  fields  and   streams  and 

the  joys  that  once  I  knew. 
And  if  youth  be  wild  desire  for  play  and  care 

is  the  mark  of  men, 
Beneath  the  skin  that  Time  has  tanned  I'm  a 

madcap  youngster  then. 

Far  richer  than  king  with  his  crown  of  gold  and 

his  heavy  weight  of  care 
Is  the  sunburned  boy  with  his  stone-bruised  feet 

and  his  tousled  shock  of  hair; 
For  the  king  can  hear  but  the  cry  of  hate  or  the 

sickly  sound  of  praise, 
And  lost  to  him  are  the  voices  sweet  that  called 

in  his  boyhood  days. 
Far   better  than   ruler,   with  pomp  and   power 

and  riches,  is  it  to  be 
The  urchin  gay  in  his  tattered  clothes  that  is 

climbing  the  apple  tree. 

Oh,  once  I  heard  all  the  calls  that  come  to  the 
quick,  glad  ears  of  boys, 
78 


And  a  certain  spot  on  the  river  bank  told  me  of 

its  many  joys, 
And  certain  fields  and  certain  trees  were  loyal 

friends  to  me, 
And  I  knew  the  birds,  and  I  owned  a  dog,  and 

we  both  could  hear  and  see. 
Oh,  never  from  tongues  of  men  have  dropped 

such  messages  wholly  glad 
As  the  things  that  live  in  the  great  outdoors 

once  told  to  a  little  lad. 

And  I'm  sorry  for  him  who  cannot  hear  what 

the  tall  trees  have  to  say, 
Who  is  deaf  to  the  call  of  a  running  stream 

and  the  lanes  that  lead  to  play. 
The    boy   that    shins   up   the    faithful    elm   or 

sprawls  on  a  river  bank 
Is  more  richly  blessed  with  the  joys  of  life  than 

any  old  man  of  rank. 
For  youth  is  the  golden  time  of  life,  and  this 

battered  old  heart  of  mine 
Beats  fast  to  the  march  of  its  old-time  joys, 

when  the  sun  begins  to  shine. 


79 


MY   PAW    SAID   SO 

Foxes  can  talk  if  you  know  how  to  listen, 

My  Paw  said  so. 
Owls  have  big  eyes  that  sparkle  an'  glisten, 

My  Paw  said  so. 

Bears  can  turn  flip-flaps  an'  climb  ellum  trees, 
An'  steal  all  the  honey  away  from  the  bees, 
An'   they  never  mind  winter  becoz  they  don't 
freeze ; 

My  Paw  said  so. 

Girls    is   a-scared    of    a    snake,    but   boys   ain't, 

My  Paw  said  so. 
They  holler  an'  run;  an'  sometimes  they  faint, 

My  Paw  said  so. 
But   boys   would   be   'shamed  to  be   frightened 

that  way 

When  all  that  the  snake  wants  to  do  is  to  play; 
You've  got  to  believe  every  word  that  I  say, 

My  Paw  said  so. 

Wolves  ain't  so  bad  if  you  treat  'em  all  right, 

My  Paw  said  so. 
They're  as  fond  of  a  game  as  they  are  of  a  fight, 

My  Paw  said  so. 

An'  all  of  the  animals  found  in  the  wood 
Ain't  always   ferocious.      Most  times  they  are 
good. 


80 


The  trouble  is  mostly  they're  misunderstood, 

My  Paw  said  so. 

You  can  think  what  you  like,  but  I  stick  to  it 
when 

My  Paw  said  so. 
An'  I'll  keep  right  on  sayin',  again  an'  again, 

My  Paw  said  so. 

Maybe  foxes  don't  talk  to  such  people  as  you, 
An'  bears  never  show  you  the  tricks  they  can  do, 
But  I  know  that  the  stories  I'm  tellin'  are  true, 

My  Paw  said  so. 


LIFE'S  TESTS 

If  never  a  sorrow  came  to  us,  and  never  a  care 

we   knew ; 
If  every  hope  were  realized,  and  every  dream 

came  true; 
If  only  joy  were   found  on  earth,  and  no  one 

ever   sighed, 
And  never  a  friend  proved  false  to  us,  and  never 

a  loved  one  died, 
And  never  a  burden  bore  us  down,  soul-sick  and 

weary,  too, 
We'd  yearn  for  tests  to  prove  our  worth  and 

tasks  for  us  to  do. 
81 


THE   PEACEFUL   WARRIORS 

Let  others  sing  their  songs  of  war 

And  chant  their  hymns  of  splendid  death, 

Let  others  praise  the  soldiers'  ways 

And  hail  the   cannon's   flaming  breath. 

Let  others  sing  of  Glory's  fields 
Where  blood  for  Victory  is  paid, 

I  choose  to  sing  some  simple  thing 
To  those  who  wield  not  gun  or  blade  — 
The  peaceful  warriors  of  trade. 

Let  others  choose  the  deeds  of  war 
For  symbols  of  our  nation's  skill, 

The  blood-red  coat,  the  rattling  throat, 
The  regiment  that  charged  the  hill, 

The  boy  who  died  to  serve  the  flag, 
Who  heard  the  order  and  obeyed, 

But  leave  to  me  the  gallantry 
Of  those  who  labor  unafraid  — 
The  peaceful  warriors  of  trade. 

Aye,  let  me  sing  the  splendid  deeds 
Of  those  who  toil  to  serve  mankind, 

The  men  who  break  old  ways  and  make 
New  paths  for  those  who  come  behind. 

The  young  who  war  with  customs  old 
And  face  their  problems,  unafraid, 

Who  think  and  plan  to  lift  for  man 
The  burden  that  on  him  is  laid  — 
The  splendid  warriors  of  trade. 
82 


I  sing  of  battles  with  disease 

And  victories  o'er  death  and  pain, 
Of  ships  that  fly  the  summer  sky, 

And  glorious  deeds  of  strength  and  brain. 
The  call  for  help  that  rings  through  space 

By  which  a  vessel's  course  is  stayed, 
Thrills  me  far  more  than  fields  of  gore, 

Or  heroes  decked  in  golden  braid  — 

I  sing  the  warriors  of  trade. 


FAILURES 

'Tis  better  to  have  tried  in  vain, 
Sincerely  striving  for  a  goal, 

Than  to  have  lived  upon  the  plain 
An  idle  and  a  timid  soul. 

'Tis  better  to  have  fought  and  spent 

Your  courage,  missing  all  applause, 
Than  to  have  lived  in  smug  content 

And  never  ventured  for  a  cause. 

i 

For  he  who  tries  and  fails  may  be 
The  founder  of  a  better  day; 

Though  never  his  the  victory, 

From  him  shall  others  learn  the  way. 


RAISIN   PIE 

There's  a  heap  of  pent-up  goodness  in  the  yellow 

bantam   corn, 
And  I  sort  o'  like  to  linger  round  a  berry  patch 

at  morn ; 
Oh,  the  Lord  has  set  our  table  with  a  stock  o' 

things  to  eat 
An'  there's  just  enough  o'  bitter  in  the  blend 

to  cut  the  sweet, 
But    I    run   the    whole    list    over,    an'    it    seems 

somehow  that  I 
Find  the  keenest   sort   o'   pleasure   in  a   chunk 

p'  raisin  pie. 

There  are  pies  that  start  the  water  circulatin'  in 
the  mouth; 

There  are  pies  that  wear  the  flavor  of  the  warm 
an'  sunny  south; 

Some  with  oriental  spices  spur  the  drowsy  appe 
tite 

An'  just  fill  a  fellow's  being  with  a  thrill  o' 
real  delight; 

But  for  downright  solid  goodness  that  comes 
drippin'  from  the  sky 

There  is  nothing  quite  the  equal  of  a  chunk  o' 
raisin  pie. 

I'm  admittin'  tastes  are  diff'runt,  I'm  not  settin' 
up  myself 

84 


As  the  judge  an'  final  critic  of  the  good  things 

on  the  shelf. 
I'm  just  sort  o'  payin'  tribute  to  a  simple  joy  on 

earth, 
Sort  o'  feebly  testify  in'  to  its  lasting  charm  an* 

worth, 
An'  I'll  hold  to  this  conclusion  till  it  comes  my 

time  to  die, 
That  there's  no  dessert  that's  finer  than  a  chunk 

o'  raisin  pie. 


PREPAREDNESS 

Right  must  not  live  in  idleness, 
Nor  dwell  in  smug  content; 

It  must  be  strong,  against  the  throng 
Of  foes,  on  evil  bent. 

Justice  must  not  a  weakling  be 

But  it  must  guard  its  own, 
And  live  each  day,  that  none  can  say 

Justice  is  overthrown. 

Peace,  the  sweet  glory  of  the  world, 

Faces  a  duty,  too; 
Death  is  her  fate,  leaves  she  one  gate 

For  war  to  enter  through. 

85 


THE  READY  ARTISTS 

The  green  is  in  the  meadow  and  the  blue  is  in 
the  sky, 

And  all  of  Nature's  artists  have  their  colors 
handy  by; 

With  a  few  days  bright  with  sunshine  and  a 
few  nights  free  from'  frost 

They  will  start  to  splash  their  colors  quite 
regardless  of  the  cost. 

There's  an  artist  waiting  ready  at  each  bleak 
and  dismal  spot 

To  paint  the  flashing  tulip  or  the  meek  forget- 
me-not. 

May  is  lurking  in  the  distance  and  her  lap  is 
filled  with  flowers, 

And  the  choicest  of  her  blossoms  very  shortly 
will  be  ours. 

There  is  not  a  lane  so  dreary  or  a  field  so  dark 
with  gloom 

But  that  soon  will  be  resplendent  with  its  little 
touch  of  bloom. 

There's  an  artist  keen  and  eager  to  make  beau 
tiful  each  scene 

And  remove  with  colors  gorgeous  every  trace  of 
of  what  has  been. 


86 


Oh,  the  world  is  now  in  mourning;  round  about 

us  all  are  spread 
The  ruins  and  the  symbols  of  the  winter  that 

is  dead. 
But  the  bleak  and  barren  picture  very  shortly 

now  will  pass, 
For  the  halls  of  life  are  ready  for  their  velvet 

rugs  of  grass; 
And   the  painters   now  are   waiting   with   their 

magic  to  replace 
This  dullness  with  a  beauty  that  no  mortal  hand 

can  trace. 

The  green  is  in  the  meadow  and  the  blue  is  in 

the  sky; 
The  chill  of  death  is  passing,  life  will  shortly 

greet  the  eye. 
We    shall    revel    soon    in    colors    only    Nature's 

artists  make 
And    the    humblest    plant    that's    sleeping    unto 

beauty  shall  awake. 
For   there's   not   a   leaf    forgotten,    not   a   twig 

neglected  there, 
And  the  tiniest  of  pansies  shall  the  royal  purple 

wear. 


THE  HAPPIEST  DAYS 

You  do  not  know  it,  little  man, 
In  your  summer  coat  of  tan 
And  your  legs  bereft  of  hose 
And  your  peeling,  sunburned  nose, 
With  a  stone  bruise  on  your  toe, 
Almost   limping  as  you   go 
Running  on  your  way  to  play 
Through  another  summer  day, 
Friend  of  birds  and  streams  and  trees, 
That  your  happiest  days  are  these. 

Little  do  you  think  to-day, 
As  you  hurry  to  your  play, 
That  a  lot  of  u's,  grown  old 
In  the  chase  for  fame  and  gold, 
Watch  you  as  you  pass  along 
Gayly   whistling   bits   of    song, 
And  in  envy  sit  and  dream 
Of  a  long-neglected   stream, 
Where  long  buried  are  the  joys 
We  possessed  when  we  were  boys. 

Little  chap,  you  cannot  guess 
All  your  sum  of  happiness; 
Little  value  do  you  place 
On  your  sunburned  freckled  face; 


88 


And  if  some  shrewd  fairy  came 
Offering  sums  of  gold  and  fame 
For  your  summer  days  of  play, 
You  would  barter  them  away 
And  believe  that  you  had  made 
There  and  then  a  clever  trade. 

Time  was  we  were  boys  like  you, 
Bare  of  foot  and  sunburned,  too, 
And,  like  you,  we  never  guessed 
All  the  riches  we  possessed; 
We'd  have  traded  them  back  then 
For  the  hollow  joys  of  men; 
We'd  have  given  them  all  to  be 
Rich  and  wise  and  forty-three. 
For  life  never  teaches  boys 
Just  how  precious  are  their  joys. 

Youth  has  fled  and  we  are  old. 
Some  of  us  have  fame  and  gold; 
Some  of  us  are  sorely  scarred, 
For  the  way  of  age  is  hard; 
And  we  envy,  little  man, 
You  your  splendid  coat  of  tan, 
Envy  you  your  treasures  rare, 
Hours  of  joy  beyond  compare; 
For  we  know,  by  teaching  stern, 
All  that  some  day  you  must  learn. 


89 


THE  REAL  BAIT 

To  gentle  ways  I  am  inclined; 

I  have  no  wish  to  kill. 
To  creatures  dumb  I  would  be  kind; 

I  like  them  all,  but  still 
Right  now  I  think  I'd  like  to  be 

Beside  some  rippling  brook, 
And  grab  a  worm  I'd  brought  with  me 

And  slip  him  on  a  hook. 

I'd  like  to  put  my  hand  once  more 

Into  a  rusty  can 
And  turn  those  squirmy  creatures  o'er 

Like  nuggets  in  a  pan; 
And  for  a  big  one,  once  again, 

With  eager  eyes  I'd  look, 
As  did  a  boy  I  knew,  and  then 

Impale   it   on  a  hook. 

I've  had  my  share  of  fishing  joy, 

I've  fished  with  patent  bait, 
With  chub  and  minnow,  but  the  boy 

Is  lord  of  sport's  estate. 
And  no  such  pleasure  comes  to  man 

So  rare  as  when  he  took 
A  worm  from  a  tomato  can 

And  slipped  it  on  a  hook. 


I'd  like  to  gaze  with  glowing  eyes 

Upon  that  precious  bait, 
To  view  each  fat  worm  as  a  prize 

To  be  accounted  great. 
And  though  I've  passed   from  boyhood's  term, 

And  opened  age's  book, 
I  still  would  like  to  put  a  worm 

That  wriggled  on  a  hook. 


TRUE  NOBILITY 

Who  does  his  task  from  day  to  day 
And  meets  whatever  comes  his  way, 
Believing  God  has  willed  it  so, 
Has  found  real  greatness  here  below. 

Who  guards  his  post,  no  matter  where, 
Believing  God  must  need  him  there, 
Although  but  lowly  toil  it  be, 
Has  risen  to  nobility. 

For  great  and  low  there's  but  one  test : 
'Tis  that  each  man  shall  do  his  best. 
Who  works  with  all  the  strength  he  can 
Shall  never  die  in  debt  to  man. 


THE  SULKERS 

The  world's  too  busy  now  to  pause 

To  listen  to  a  whiner's  cause; 

It  has  no  time  to  stop  and  pet 

The  sulker  in  a  peevish  fret, 

Who  wails  he'll  neither  work  nor  play 

Because  things  haven't  gone  his  way. 

The  world  keeps  plodding  right  along 
And  gives  its  favors  right  or  wrong 
To  all  who  have  the  grit  to  work 
Regardless  of  the  fool  or  shirk. 
The  world  says  this  to  every  man: 
"  Go  out  and  do  the  best  you  can." 

The  world's  too  busy  to  implore 
The  beaten  one  to  try  once  more ; 
'Twill  help  him  if  he  wants  to  rise, 
And  boost  him  if  he  bravely  tries, 
And  shows  determination  grim; 
But  it  won't  stop  to  baby  him. 

The  world  is  occupied  with  men 

Who  fall  but  quickly  rise  again; 

But  those  who  whine  because  they're  hit 

And  step  aside  to  sulk  a  bit 

Are  doomed  some  day  to  wake  and  find 

The  world  has  left  them  far  behind. 


92 


PURPOSE 

Not  for  the  sake  of  the  gold, 
Not  for  the  sake  of  the  fame, 

Not  for  the  prize  would  I  hold 
Any  ambition  or  aim : 

I  would  be  brave  and  be  true 

Just  for  the  good  I  can  do. 

I  would  be  useful  on  earth, 
Serving  some  purpose  or  cause, 

Doing  some  labor  of  worth, 
Giving  no  thought  to  applause. 

Thinking  less  of  the  gold  or  the  fame 

Than  the  joy  and  the  thrill  of  the  game. 

Medals  their  brightness  may  lose, 
Fame  be  forgotten  or  fade, 

Any  reward  we  may  choose 
Leaves  the  account  still  unpaid. 

But  little  real  happiness  lies 

In  fighting  alone  for  a  prize. 

Give  me  the  thrill  of  the  task, 
The  joy  of  the  battle  and  strife, 

Of  being  of  use,  and  I'll  ask 

No  greater  reward  from  this  life. 

Better  than  fame  or  applause 

Is  striving  to  further  a  cause. 


93 


MOTHER'S  GLASSES 

I've  told  about  the  times  that  Ma  can't  find 
her  pocketbook, 

And  how  we  have  to  hustle  round  for  it  to  help 
her  look, 

But  there's  another  care  we  know  that  often 
comes  our  way, 

I  guess  it  happens  easily  a  dozen  times  a  day. 

It  starts  when  first  the  postman  through  the 
door  a  letter  passes, 

And  Ma  says :  "  Goodness  gracious  me !  Wher 
ever  are  my  glasses?" 

We   hunt   'em   on   the   mantelpiece   an'   by   the 

kitchen  sink, 
Until  Ma  says :     "  Now,  children,  stop,  an'  give 

me  time  to  think 
Just    when    it    was    I    used    'em    last    an'    just 

exactly    where. 
Yes,  now  I  know  —  the  dining  room.     I'm  sure 

you'll  find  'em  there." 
We  even  look  behind  the  clock,  we  busy  boys 

an'  lasses, 
Until  somebody  runs  across  Ma's  missing  pair  of 

glasses. 


We've  found  'em  in  the  Bible,  an'  we've  found 
'em  in  the  flour, 

We've  found  'em  in  the  sugar  bowl,  an'  once 
we  looked  an  hour 

Before  we  came  across  'em  in  the  padding  of 
her  chair; 

An'  many  a  time  we've  found  'em  in  the  topknot 
of  her  hair. 

It's  a  search  that  ruins  order  an'  the  home  com 
pletely  wrecks, 

For  there's  no  place  where  you  may  not  find 
poor  Ma's  elusive  specs. 

But    we're    mighty    glad,    I   tell   you,    that   the 

duty's  ours  to  do, 
An'  we  hope  to  hunt  those  glasses  till  our  time 

of  life  is  through; 
It's  a  little  bit  of  service  that  is  joyous  in  its 

thrill, 
It's  a  task  that  calls  us  daily  an'   we  hope  it 

always  will. 
Rich   or  poor,   the   saddest   mortals   of   all   the 

joyless  masses 
Are  the  ones  who  have  no  mother  dear  to  lose 

her  reading  glasses. 


95 


THE  PRINCESS  PAT'S 

Written  when  the  Canadian  regi 
ment,  known  as  the  "Princess  Pat's," 
left  for  the  front. 

A   touch    of   the   plain   and   the   prairie, 

A  bit  of  the  Motherland,  too; 
A   strain  of  the   fur-trapper   wary, 

A  blend  of  the  old  and  the  new; 
A  bit  of  the  pioneer  splendor 

That  opened  the  wilderness'  flats, 
A  touch  of  the  home-lover,  tender, 

You'll  find  in  the  boys  they  call  Pat's. 

The  glory  and  grace  of  the  maple, 

The  strength  that  is  born  of  the  wheat, 
The  pride  of  a  stock  that  is  staple, 

The  bronze  of  a  midsummer  heat; 
A  blending  of  wisdom  and  daring, 

The  best  of  a  new  land,  and  that's 
The    regiment    gallantly    bearing 

The   neat   little   title   of   Pat's. 

A  bit  of  the  man  who  has  neighbored 

With  mountains  and   forests  and  streams, 
A  touch  of  the  man  who  has  labored 

To  model  and  fashion  his  dreams; 
The  strength  of  an  age  of  clean  living, 

Of  right-minded  fatherly  chats, 
The  best  that  a  land  could  be  giving 

Is  there  in  the  breasts  of  the  Pat's. 
96 


BE  A  FRIEND 

Be  a  friend.     You  don't  need  money: 

Just  a  disposition  sunny; 

Just  the  wish  to  help  another 

Get  along  some  way  or  other; 

Just  a  kindly  hand  extended 

Out  to  one  who's  unbefriended; 

Just  the  will  to  give  or  lend, 

This  will  make  you  someone's  friend. 

Be  a  friend.     You  don't  need  glory. 
Friendship  is  a  simple  story. 
Pass  by  trifling  errors  blindly, 
Gaze  on  honest  effort  kindly, 
Cheer  the  youth  who's  bravely  trying, 
Pity  him  who's  sadly  sighing; 
Just  a  little  labor  spend 
On  the  duties  of  a  friend. 

Be  a  friend.    The  pay  is  bigger 
(Though  not  written  by  a  figure) 
Than  is  earned  by  people  clever 
In  what's  merely  self -endeavor. 
You'll  have  friends  instead  of  neighbors 
For  the  profits  of  your  labors; 
You'll  be  richer  in  the  end 
Than  a  prince,  if  you're  a  friend. 


97 


THANKSGIVING 

Thankful  for  the  glory  of  the  old  Red,  White 
and  Blue, 

For  the  spirit  of  America  that  still  is  staunch 
and  true, 

For  the  laughter  of  our  children  and  the  sun 
light  in  their  eyes, 

And  the  joy  of  radiant  mothers  and  their  even 
ing  lullabies; 

And  thankful  that  our  harvests  wear  no  taint 
of  blood  to-day, 

But  were  sown  and  reaped  by  toilers  who  were 
light  of  heart  and  gay. 

Thankful  for  the  riches  that  are  ours  to  claim 

and  keep, 
The  joy  of  honest  labor  and  the  boon  of  happy 

sleep, 
For  each  little  family  circle  where  there  is  no 

empty  chair 
Save  where  God  has  sent  the  sorrow   for  the 

loving  hearts  to  bear; 
And   thankful    for   the   loyal    souls    and    brave 

hearts  of  the  past 
Who  builded  that  contentment  should  be  with 

us  to  the  last. 


98 


Thankful  for  the  plenty  that  our  peaceful  land 

has   blessed, 
For  the  rising  sun  that  beckons  every  man  to 

do  his  best, 
For  the  goal  that  lies  before  him  and  the  promise 

when  he  sows 
That  his  hand  shall  reap  the  harvest,  undisturbed 

by  cruel   foes; 
For   the   flaming  torch   of   justice,    symbolizing 

as  it  burns : 
Here  none  may  rob  the  toiler  of  the  prize  he 

fairly  earns. 

To-day  our  thanks  we're  giving  for  the  riches 
that  are  ours, 

For  the  red  fruits  of  the  orchards  and  the  per 
fume  of  the  flowers, 

For  our  homes  with  laughter  ringing  and  our 
hearthfires  blazing  bright, 

For  our  land  of  peace  and  plenty  and  our  land 
of  truth  and  right; 

And  we're  thankful  for  the  glory  of  the  old 
Red,  White  and  Blue, 

For  the  spirit  of  our  fathers  and  a  manhood 
that  is  true. 


99 


MA  AND  HER  CHECK  BOOK 

Ma  has  a  dandy  little  book  that's  full  of  narrow 

slips, 
An'  when  she  wants  to  pay  a  bill  a  page  from 

it  she  rips; 
She  just  writes  in  the  dollars  and  the  cents  and 

signs  her  name 
An'  that's  as  good  as  money,  though  it  doesn't 

lock  the  same. 
When    she    wants    another    bonnet    or    some 

feathers   for  her  neck, 
She  promptly  goes  an'  gets  'em,  an'  she  writes 

another  check. 
I    don't    just    understand    it,    but    I    know    she 

sputters  when 
Pa   says   to   her   at   supper :      "  Well !      You're 

overdrawn  again !  " 

Ma's  not  a  business  woman,   she  is  much  too 

kind  of  heart 
To  squabble  over  pennies  or  to  play  a  selfish 

part, 
An'   when  someone  asks   for  money,   she's  not 

one  to  stop  an'  think 
Of  a  little  piece  of  paper  an'  the  cost  of  pen 

an'  ink. 


TOO 


She   just   tells   him   very   sweetly   if    he'll    only 

wait  a  bit 
An'   be  seated  in  the  parlor,   she  will  write  a 

check  for  it. 
She  can  write  one  out  for  twenty  just  as  easily 

as  ten, 
An'    forgets    that    Pa    may    grumble :      "  Well, 

you're  overdrawn  again !  " 

Pa  says  it  looks  as  though  he'll  have  to  start  in 

workin'  nights 
To   gather   in   the   money    for   the   checks   that 

mother  writes. 

He   says   that   every   morning   when   he's    sum 
moned  to  the  phone, 
He's  afraid  the  bank  is  calling  to  make  mother's 

shortage  known. 
He  tells  his  friends  if  ever  anything  our  fortune 

wrecks 
They  can  trace  it  to  the  moment  mother  started 

writing  checks. 
He's  got  so  that  he  trembles  when  he  sees  her 

fountain   pen 
An'  he  mutters :     "  Do  be  careful !     You'll  be 

overdrawn  again !  " 


101 


THE  FISHING  CURE 

There's  nothing  that  builds  up  a  toil-weary  soul 

Like  a  day  on  a  stream, 
Back  on  the  banks  of  the  old  fishing  hole 

Where    a    fellow    can    dream. 
There's  nothing  so  good  for  a  man  as  to  flee 

From  the  city  and  lie 
Full  length  in  the  shade  of  a  whispering  tree 

And  gaze  at  the  sky. 

Out  there  where  the  strife  and  the  greed  are 
forgot 

And  the  struggle  for  pelf, 
A  man  can  get  rid  of  each  taint  and  each  spot 

And   clean  up   himself; 
He  can  be  what  he  wanted  to  be  when  a  boy, 

If  only  in  dreams; 
And  revel  once  more  in  the  depths  of  a  joy 

That's  as  real  as  it  seems. 

The    things    that    he    hates    never    follow    him 

there  — 

The  jar  of  the  street, 
The  rivalries  petty,  the  struggling  unfair  — 

For  the  open  is  sweet. 
In  purity's  realm  he  can  rest  and  be  clean, 

Be  he  humble  or  great, 
And  as  peaceful  his  soul  may  become  as  the 

scene 

That  his  eyes  contemplate. 
1 02 


It  is  good  for  the  world  that  men  hunger  to  go 

To  the  banks  of  a  stream, 
And  weary  of  sham  and  of  pomp  and  of  show 

They  have  somewhere  to  dream. 
For  this  life  would  be  dreary  and  sordid  and  base 

Did  they  not  now  and  then 
Seek  refreshment  and  calm  in  God's  wide,  open 
space 

And  come  back  to  be  men. 


THE  HAPPY  SLOW  THINKER 

Full  many  a  time  a  thought  has  come 
That  had  a  bitter  meaning  in  it. 

And  in  the  conversation's  hum 
I  lost  it  ere  I  could  begin  it. 

I've  had  it  on  my  tongue  to  spring 

Some   poisoned   quip   that   I   thought   clever; 
Then    something   happened    and    the    sting 

Unuttered  went,  and  died  forever. 

A  lot  of  bitter  thoughts  I've  had 
To  silence  fellows  and  to  flay  'em, 

But  next  day  always  I've  been  glad 
I  wasn't  quick  enough  to  say  'em. 


103 


OUT-OF-DOORS 

The   kids   are   out-of-doors   once   more; 
The  heavy  leggins  that  they  wore, 
The  winter  caps  that  covered  ears 
Are  put  away,  and  no  more  tears 
Are  shed  because  they  cannot  go 
Until  they're  bundled  up  just  so. 
No  more  she  wonders  when  they're  gone 
If  they  have  put  their  rubbers  on; 
No   longer  are  they  hourly  told 
To  guard  themselves  against  a  cold; 
Bareheaded  now  they  romp  and  run 
Warmed  only  by  the  kindly  sun. 

She's  put  their  heavy  clothes  away 
And  turned  the  children  out  to  play, 
And  all  the  morning  long  they  race 
Like  madcaps  round  about  the  place. 
The  robins  on  the  fences  sing 
A  gayer  song  of  welcoming, 
And  seem  as  though  they  had  a  share 
In  all  the  fun  they're  having  there. 
The  wrens  and  sparrows  twitter,  too, 
A  louder  and  a  noisier  crew, 
As  though  it  pleased  them  all  to  see 
The  youngsters  out  of  doors  and  free. 


104 


Outdoors  they  scamper  to  their  play 

With  merry  din  the  livelong  day, 

And  hungrily  they  jostle  in 

The  favor  of  the  maid  to  win; 

Then,  armed  with  cookies  or  with  cake, 

Their  way  into  the  yard  they  make, 

And  every  feathered  playmate  comes 

To  gather  up  his  share  of  crumbs. 

The  finest  garden  that  I  know 

Is  one  where  little  children  grow, 

Where  cheeks  turn  brown  and  eyes  are  bright, 

And  all  is  laughter  and  delight. 

Oh,  you  may  brag  of  gardens  fine, 

But  let  the  children  race  in  mine; 

And  let  the  roses,  white  and  red, 

Make  gay  the  ground  whereon  they  tread. 

And  who  for  bloom  perfection  seeks, 

Should  mark  the  color  on  their  cheeks; 

No    music    that    the    robin    spouts 

Is  equal  to  their  merry  shouts; 

There  is  no  foliage  to  compare 

With  youngsters'   sun-kissed,  tousled  hair: 

Spring's  greatest  joy  beyond  a  doubt 

Is  when  it  brings  the  children  out. 


105 


REAL   SINGING 

You    can    talk    about    your    music,    and    your 

operatic   airs, 
And    your   phonographic    record    that    Caruso's 

tenor  bears; 
But  there  isn't  any  music  that  such  wondrous 

joy  can  bring 
Like   the   concert   when   the   kiddies   and   their 

mother  start  to  sing. 

When  the  supper  time  is  over,  then  the  mother 

starts  to  play 
Some  simple  little  ditty,  and  our  concert's  under 

way. 
And  I'm  happier  and  richer  than  a  millionaire 

or  king 
When  I  listen  to  the  kiddies  and  their  mother 

as  they  sing. 

There's  a  sweetness  most  appealing  in  the  trill 
ing  of  their  notes: 

It  is  innocence  that's  pouring  from  their  little 
baby  throats; 

And  I  gaze  at  them  enraptured,  for  my  joy's 
a  real  thing 

Every  evening  when  the  kiddies  and  their  mother 
start  to  sing. 


106 


THE    BUMPS    AND    BRUISES    DOCTOR 

I'm  the  bumps  and  bruises  doctor; 

I'm  the  expert  that  they  seek 
When  their  rough  and  tumble  playing 

Leaves  a  scar  on  leg  or  cheek. 
I'm  the  rapid,  certain  curer 

For  the  wounds  of  every  fall; 
I'm  the  pain  eradicator; 

I  can  always  heal  them  all. 

Bumps  on  little  people's  foreheads 

I  can  quickly  smooth  away; 
I  take  splinters  out  of  ringers 

Without  very  much  delay. 
Little  sorrows  I  can  banish 

With  the  magic  of  my  touch; 
I  can  fix  a  bruise  that's  dreadful 

So  it  isn't  hurting  much. 

I'm  the  bumps  and  bruises  doctor, 

And  I  answer  every  call, 
And  my  fee  is  very  simple, 
.     Just  a  kiss,  and  that  is  all. 
And  I'm  sitting  here  and  wishing 

In  the  years  that  are  to  be, 
When  they  face  life's  real  troubles 

That  they'll  bring  them  all  to  me. 


107 


WHEN  PA  COUNTS 

Pa's   not   so   very   big   or   brave;   he    can't   lift 

weights  like  Uncle  Jim; 
His  hands  are  soft  like  little  girls' ;  most  anyone 

could  wallop  him. 
Ma  weighs  a  whole  lot  more  than  Pa.     When 

they  go  swimming,  she  could  stay 
Out  in  the  river  all  day  long,  but  Pa  gets  frozen 

right  away. 
But  when  the  thunder  starts  to  roll,  an'  lightnin' 

spits,  Ma  says,  "  Oh,  dear, 
I'm  sure  we'll  all  of  us  be  killed.     I  only  wish 

your  Pa  was  here." 

Pa's  cheeks  are  thin  an'  kinder  pale;  he  couldn't 

rough  it  worth  a  cent. 
He  couldn't  stand  the  hike  we  had  the  day  the 

Boy  Scouts  camping  went. 
He  has  to  hire  a  man  to  dig  the  garden,  coz  his 

back  gets  lame, 
An'  he'd  be  crippled  for  a  week,  if  he  should 

play   a   baseball   game. 
But  when  a  thunder  storm  comes  up,  Ma  sits  an' 

shivers  in  the  gloam 
An'  every  time  the  thunder  rolls,  she  says :     "  I 

wish  your  Pa  was  home." 


1 08 


I  don't  know  just  what  Pa  could  do  if  he  were 

home,  he  seems  so  frail, 
But  every  time  the  skies  grow  black  I  notice  Ma 

gets  rather  pale. 
An'  when  she's  called  us  children  in,  an'  locked 

the  windows  an'  the  doors, 
She  jumps  at  every  lightnin'  flash  an'  trembles 

when  the  thunder  roars. 
An'  when  the  baby  starts  to  cry,  she  wrings  her 

hands  an'  says :     "  Oh,  dear ! 
It's  terrible!     It's  terrible!     I   only  wish  your 

Pa  was  here." 


PEACE 

A  man  must  earn  his  hour  of  peace, 

Must  pay  for  it  with  hours  of  strife  and  care, 
Must  win  by  toil  the  evening's  sweet  release, 

The  rest  that  may  be  portioned  for  his  share; 
The  idler  never  knows  it,  never  can. 

Peace  is  the  glory  ever  of  a  man. 

A  man  must  win  contentment  for  his  soul, 
Must  battle  for  it  bravely  day  by  day; 

The  peace  he  seeks  is  not  a  near-by  goal; 
To  claim  it  he  must  tread  a  rugged  way. 

The  shirker  never  knows  a  tranquil  breast; 
Peace  but  rewards  the  man  who  does  his  best. 


109 


NO  PLACE  TO  GO 

The  happiest  nights 

I  ever  know 
Are  those  when  I've 

No  place  to  go, 
And  the  missus  says 

When  the  day  is  through 
"  To-night  we  haven't 

A  thing  to  do." 

Oh,  the  joy  of  it, 

And    the    peace    untold 
Of  sitting  'round 

In  my  slippers  old, 
With    my    pipe    and    book 

In  my  easy  chair, 
Knowing  I  needn't 

Go  anywhere. 

Needn't  hurry 

My  evening  meal 
Nor  force  the  smiles 

That  I  do  not  feel, 
But  can  grab  a  book 

From  a  near-by  shelf, 
And  drop  all  sham 

And  be  myself. 

no 


Oh,  the  charm  of  it 

And  the  comfort  rare; 
Nothing  on  earth 

With  it  can  compare; 
And  I'm  sorry  for  him 

Who  doesn't  know 
The  joy  of  having 

No  place  to  go. 


DEFEAT 

/ 
No  one  is  beat  till  he  quits, 

No  one  is  through  till  he  stops, 
No  matter  how  hard  Failure  hits, 

No  matter  how  often  he  drops, 
A  fellow's  not  down  till  he  lies 
In  the  dust  and  refuses  to  rise. 

Fate  can  slam  him  and  bang  him  around, 
And  batter  his  frame  till  he's  sore, 

But  she  never  can  say  that  he's  downed 
While  he  bobs  up  serenely  for  more. 

A  fellow's  not  dead  till  he  dies, 

Nor  beat  till  no  longer  he  tries. 


in 


A  PATRIOTIC  WISH 

I'd  like  to  be  the  sort  of  man  the  flag  could 

boast  about; 
I'd  like  to  be  the   sort  of  man  it  cannot   live 

without ; 

I'd  like  to  be  the  type  of  man 
That   really  is   American : 
The  head-erect  and  shoulders-square, 
Clean-minded  fellow,  just  and  fair, 
That  all  men  picture  when  they  see 
The  glorious  banner  of  the  free. 

I'd   like  to  be  the   sort  of   man  the   flag  now 

typifies, 
The  kind  of  man  we  really  want  the   flag  to 

symbolize ; 

The  loyal  brother  to  a  trust, 
The  big,  unselfish  soul  and  just, 
The  friend  of  every  man  oppressed, 
The  strong  support  of  all  that's  best, 
The  sturdy  chap  the  banner's  meant, 
Where'er  it  flies,  to  represent. 

I'd  like  to  be  the  sort  of  man  the  flag's  supposed 

to  mean, 
The  man  that  all  in   fancy  see  wherever  it  is 

seen, 

The  chap  that's  ready  for  a  fight 
Whenever  there's  a  wrong  to  right, 
112 


The  friend  in  every  time  of  need, 
The  doer  of  the  daring  deed, 
The  clean  and  generous  handed  man 
That  is  a  real  American. 


THE  PRICE  OF  JOY 

You  don't  begrudge  the  labor  when  the  roses 

start  to  bloom; 
You  don't  recall  the  dreary  days  that  won  you 

their  perfume ; 

You  don't  recall  a  single  care 
You  spent  upon  the  garden  there; 
And  all  the  toil 
Of  tilling  soil 

Is  quite  forgot  the  day  the  first 
Pink  rosebuds  into  beauty  burst. 

You  don't  begrudge  the  trials  grim  when  joy 

has  come  to  you; 
You  don't  recall  the  dreary  days  when  all  your 

skies  are  blue; 

And  though  you've  trod  a  weary  mile 
The  ache  of  it  was  all  worth  while; 
And  all  the   stings 
And  bitter  flings 
Are  wiped  away  upon  the  day 
Success  comes  dancing  down  the  way. 


THE  THINGS  THAT  MAKE  A  SOLDIER 
GREAT 

The  things  that  make  a  soldier  great  and  send 
him  out  to  die, 

To  face  the  flaming  cannon's  mouth  nor  ever 
question  why, 

Are  lilacs  by  a  little  porch,  the  row  of  tulips 
red, 

The  peonies  and  pansies,  too,  the  old  petunia  bed, 

The  grass  plot  where  his  children  play,  the  roses 
on  the  wall : 

'Tis  these  that  make  a  soldier  great.  He's  fight 
ing  for  them  all. 

'Tis  not  the  pomp  and  pride  of  kings  that  make 

a  soldier  brave; 
'Tis  not  allegiance  to  the  flag  that  over  him  may 

wave; 
For  soldiers  never  fight  so  well  on  land  or  on 

the  foam 
•As   when   behind  the   cause   they   see   the   little 

place  called  home. 
Endanger  but  that   humble   street   whereon  his 

children  run, 
You  make  a  soldier  of  the  man  who  never  bore 

a  gun. 


114 


What  is  it  through  the  battle  smoke  the  valiant 
soldier  sees? 

The  little  garden  far  away,  the  budding  apple 
trees, 

The  little  patch  of  ground  back  there,  the  chil 
dren  at  their  play, 

Perhaps  a  tiny  mound  behind  the  simple  church 
of  gray. 

The  golden  thread  of  courage  isn't  linked  to 
castle  dome 

But  to  the  spot,  where'er  it  be  —  the  humble  spot 
called  home. 

And  now  the  lilacs  bud  again  and  all  is  lovely 
there 

And  homesick  soldiers  far  away  know  spring 
is  in  the  air; 

The  tulips  come  to  bloom  again,  the  grass 
once  more  is  green, 

And  every  man  can  see  the  spot  where  all  his 
joys  have  been. 

He  sees  his  children  smile  at  him,  he  hears  the 
bugle  call, 

And  only  death  can  stop  him  now  —  he's  fight 
ing  for  them  all. 


THE  JOY  OF  A  DOG 

Ma  says  no,  it's  too  much  care 

An'  it  will  scatter  germs  an'  hair, 

An'   it's  a  nuisance  through  and  through. 

An'  barks  when  you  don't  want  it  to ; 

An'  carries  dirt  from  off  the  street, 

An'  tracks  the  carpets  with  its  feet. 

But  it's  a  sign  he's  growin'  up 

When  he  is  longin'  for  a  pup. 

Most  every  night  he  comes  to  me 
An'  climbs  a-straddle  of  my  knee 
An'  starts  to  fondle  me  an'  pet, 
Then  asks  me  if  I've  found  one  yet. 
An'  ma  says :  "  Now  don't  tell  him  yes ; 
You  know  they  make  an  awful  mess/' 
An'  starts  their  faults  to  catalogue. 
But  every  boy  should  have  a  dog. 

An'  some  night  when  he  comes  to  me, 
Deep  in  my  pocket  there  will  be 
The  pup  he's  hungry  to  possess 
Or  else  I  sadly  miss  my  guess. 
For  I  remember  all  the  joy 
A  dog  meant  to  a  little  boy 
Who  loved  it  in  the  long  ago, 
The  joy  that's  now  his  right  to  know. 


116 


HOMESICK 

It's  tough  when  you  are  homesick  in  a  strange 
and  distant  place; 

It's  anguish  when  you're  hungry  for  an  old- 
familiar  face. 

And  yearning  for  the  good  folks  and  the  joys 
you  used  to  know, 

When  you're  miles  away  from  friendship,  is  a 
bitter  sort  of  woe. 

But  it's  tougher,  let  me  tell  you,  and  a  stiff er 
discipline 

To  see  them  through  the  window,  and  to  know 
you  can't  go  in. 

Oh,  I  never  knew  the  meaning  of  that  red  sign 

on  the  door, 
Never  really  understood  it,  never  thought  of  it 

before ; 
But  I'll  never  see  another  since  they've  tacked 

one  up  on  mine 
But   I'll  think  about  the   father  that  is  barred 

from  all  that's  fine. 
And  I'll  think  about  the  mother  who  is  prisoner 

in  there 
So  her  little  son  or  daughter  shall  not  miss  a 

mother's  care. 
And  I'll  share  a  fellow  feeling  with  the  saddest 

of  my  kin, 
The   dad   beside  the   gateway  of  the  home   he 

can't  go  in. 

117 


Oh,  we  laugh  and  joke  together  and  the  mother 
tries  to  be 

Brave  and  sunny  in  her  prison,  and  she  thinks 
she's  fooling  me ; 

And  I  do  my  bravest  smiling  and  I  feign  a 
merry  air 

In  the  hope  she  won't  discover  that  I'm  bur 
dened  down  with  care. 

But  it's  only  empty  laughter,  and  there's  nothing 
in  the  grin 

When  you're  talking  through  the  window  of  the 
home  you  can't  go  in. 

THE  PERFECT  DINNER  TABLE  ' 

A  table  cloth  that's  slightly  soiled 
Where  greasy  little  hands  have  toiled ; 
The  napkins  kept  in  silver  rings, 
And  only  ordinary  things 
From  which  to  eat,  a  simple  fare, 
And  just  the  wife  and  kiddies  there, 
And  while  I  serve,  the  clatter  glad 
Of  little  girl  and  little  lad 
Who  have  so  very  much  to  say 
About  the  happenings  of  the  day. 

Four  big  round  eyes  that  dance  with  glee, 
Forever  flashing  joys  at  me, 
Two  little  tongues  that  race  and  run 
To  tell  of  troubles  and  of  fun; 
118 


The  mother  with  a  patient  smile 
Who  knows  that  she  must  wait  awhile 
Before  she'll  get  a  chance  to  say 
What  she's  discovered  through  the  day. 
She  steps  aside  for  girl  and  lad 
Who  have  so  much  to  tell  their  dad. 

Our  manners  may  not  be  the  best; 

Perhaps  our  elbows  often  rest 

Upon  the  table,  and  at  times 

That  very  worst  of  dinner  crimes, 

That  very  shameful  act  and  rude 

Of  speaking  ere  you've  downed  your  food, 

Too  frequently,  I  fear,  is  done, 

So  fast  the  little  voices  run. 

Yet  why  should  table  manners  stay 

Those  tongues  that  have  so  much  to  say? 

At  many  a  table  I  have  been 
Where  wealth  and  luxury  were  seen, 
And  I  have  dined  in  halls  of  pride 
Where  all  the  guests  were  dignified; 
But  when  it  comes  to  pleasure  rare 
The  perfect  dinner  table's  where 
No  stranger's  face  is  ever  known : 
The  dinner  hour  we  spend  alone, 
When  little  girl  and  little  lad 
Run  riot  telling  things  to  dad, 


119 


TO-MORROW 

He  was  going  to  be  all  that  a  mortal  should  be 

To-morrow. 
No  one  should  be  kinder  or  braver  than  he 

To-morrow. 

A  friend  who  was  troubled  and  weary  he  knew, 
Who'd  be  glad  of  a  lift  and  who  needed  it,  too; 
On  him  he  would  call  and  see  what  he  could  do 

To-morrow. 

Each   morning  he   stacked   up   the   letters   he'd 
write 

To-morrow. 

And  thought   of   the   folks   he   would   fill   with 
delight 

To-morrow. 

It  was  too  bad,  indeed,  he  was  busy  to-day, 
And  hadn't  a  minute  to  stop  on  his  way ; 
More  time  he  would  have  to  give  others,  he'd 
say, 

To-morrow. 

The  greatest  of  workers  this  man  would  have 
been 

To-morrow. 

The  world  would  have  known  him,  had  he  ever 
seen 

To-morrow. 


120 


But  the  fact  is  he  died  and  he  faded  from  view, 
And    all    that    he    left    here    when    living    was 

through 

Was  a  mountain  of  things  he  intended  to  do 
To-morrow. 


A  PRAYER 

God  grant  me  kindly  thought 
And  patience  through  the  day, 

And  in  the  things  I've  wrought 
Let  no  man  living  say 

That  hate's  grim  mark  has  stained 

What  little  joy  I've  gained. 

God  keep  my  nature  sweet, 
Teach  me  to  bear  a  blow, 

Disaster  and  defeat, 

And  no  resentment  show. 

If  failure  must  be  mine 

Sustain  this  soul  of  mine. 

God  grant  me  strength  to  face 
Undaunted  day  or  night; 

To   stoop   to   no   disgrace 
To  win  my  little  fight; 

Let  me  be,  when  it  is  o'er, 

As  manly   as   before. 

121 


TO  THE  LADY  IN  THE  ELECTRIC 

Lady  in  the  show  case  carriage, 

Do  not  think  that  I'm  a  bear; 
Not  for  worlds  would  I  disparage 

One  so  gracious  and  so  fair; 
Do  not  think  that  I  am  blind  to 

One  who  has  a  smile  seraphic; 
You  I'd  never  be  unkind  to, 

But  you  are  impeding  traffic. 

If  1  had  some  way  of  knowing 

What  you  are  about  to  do, 
Just  exactly  where  you're  going, 

If  I  could  depend  on  you, 
I   could   keep   my  engine   churning, 

Travel  on  and  never  mind  you. 
Lady,   when  you  think  of  turning, 

Why  not  signal  us  behind  you? 

Lady,  free  from  care  and  worry, 

Riding  in  your  plate-glass  car, 
Some   of   us   are   in   a   hurry; 

Some  of  us  must  travel  far. 
I,  myself,  am  eager,  very, 

To  be  journeying  on  my  way; 
Lady,  is  it  necessary 

To  monopolize  the  highway? 

122 


Lady,  at  the  handle,  steering, 

Why  not  keep  a  course  that's  straight? 
Know  you  not  that  wildly  veering 

As  you  do,  is  tempting  fate  ? 
Do  not  think  my  horn  I'm  blowing 

Just    on    purpose    to    harass    you, 
It  is  just  a  signal  showing 

That  I'd  safely  like  to  pass  you. 

Lady,  there  are  times  a  duty 

Must  be  done,  however  saddening; 
It  is  hard  to  tell  a  beauty 

That  she's  very  often  maddening. 
And  I  would  not  now  be  saying 

Harsh  and  cruel  words  to  fuss  you, 
But  when  traffic  you're  delaying 

You  are  forcing  men  to  cuss  you. 


123 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULDN'T  SAVE 

He  spent  what  he  made,  or  he  gave  it  away, 
Tried   to   save   money,   and   would    for   a   day, 
Started  a  bank-account  time  an'  again, 
Got  a  hundred  or  so  for  a  nest  egg,  an'  then 
Some   fellow  that  needed  it  more  than  he  did, 
Who  was  down  on  his  luck,  with  a  sick  wife 

or  kid, 

Came  along  an'  he  wasted  no  time  till  he  went 
An'    drew   out   the   coin   that    for    saving   was 

meant. 

They  say  he  died  poor,  and  I  guess  that  is  so: 
To  pile  up  a  fortune  he  hadn't  a  show; 
He  worked  all  the  time  and  good  money  he  made, 
Was  known  as  an  excellent  man  at  his  trade, 
But  he  saw  too  much,  heard  too  much,  felt  too 

much  here 

To  save  anything  by  the  end  of  the  year, 
An'  the  shabbiest  wreck  the  Lord  ever  let  live 
Could  get  money  from  him  if  he  had  it  to  give. 

I've  seen  him  slip  dimes  to  the  bums  on  the  street 
Who  told  him  they  hungered  for  something  to 

eat, 
An'   though   I   remarked   they   were   going   for 

drink 
He'd  say:     "  Mebbe  so.     But  I'd  just  hate  to 

think 

124 


That  fellow  was  hungry  an'  I'd  passed  him  by; 
I'd  rather  be  fooled  twenty  times  by  a  lie 
Than   wonder   if   one   of   'em   I   wouldn't    feed 
Had  told  me  the  truth  an'  was  really  in  need." 

Never  stinted  his   family  out  of  a  thing: 
They  had  everything  that  his  money  could  bring ; 
Said  he'd  rather  be  broke  and  just  know  they 

were  glad, 

Than  rich,  with  them  pining  an'  wishing  they  had 
Some  of  the  pleasures  his  money  would  buy; 
Said  he  never  could  look  a  bank  book  in  the  eye 
If  he  knew  it  had  grown  on  the  pleasures  and 

joys 
That  he'd  robbed   from  his  wife  and  his  girls 

and  his  boys. 

Queer  sort  of  notion  he  had,  I  confess, 
Yet  many  a  rich  man  on  earth  is  mourned  less. 
All  who  had  known  him  came  back  to  his  side 
To  honor  his  name  on  the  day  that  he   died. 
Didn't  leave  much  in  the  bank,  it  is  true, 
But  did   leave  a   fortune   in  people   who  knew 
The  big  heart  of  him,  an'  I'm  willing  to  swear 
That  to-day  he  is  one  of  the  richest  up  there. 


125 


ANSWERING  HIM 

"  When  shall  I  be  a  man?  "  he  said, 
As  I  was  putting  him  to  bed. 
"  How  many  years  will  have  to  be 
Before  Time  makes  a  man  of  me? 
And  will  I  be  a  man  when  I 
Am  grown  up  big?"  I  heaved  a  sigh, 
Because   it  called   for  careful  thought 
To  give  the  answer  that  he  sought. 

And  so  I  sat  him  on  my  knee, 

And  said  to  him :     "  A  man  you'll  be 

When  you  have  learned  that  honor  brings 

More  joy  than  all  the  crowns  of  kings; 

That  it  is  better  to  be  true 

To  all  who  know  and  trust  in  you 

Than  all  the  gold  of  earth  to  gain 

If  winning  it  shall  leave  a  stain. 

"  When  you  can  fight  for  victory  sweet, 
Yet  bravely  swallow  down  defeat, 
And  cling  to  hope  and  keep  the  right, 
Nor  use  deceit  instead  of  might; 
When  you  are  kind  and  brave  and  clean, 
And  fair  to  all  and  never  mean; 
When  there  is  good  in  all  you  plan, 
That  day,  my  boy,  you'll  be  a  man. 

126 


"  Some  of  us  learn  this  truth  too  late ; 
That  years  alone  can't  make  us  great; 
That  many  who  are  three-score,  ten 
Have  fallen  short  of  being  men, 
Because  in  selfishness  they  fought 
And  toiled  without  refining  thought; 
And  whether  wrong  or  whether  right 
They  lived  but  for  their  own  delight. 
•  \ 

"  When  you  have  learned  that  you  must  hold 
Your  honor  dearer  far  than  gold; 
That  no  ill-gotten  wealth  or  fame    ; 
Can  pay  you  for  your  tarnished  name; 
And  when  in  all  you  say  or  do 
Of  others  you're  considerate,  too, 
Content  to  do  the  best  you  can 
By  such  a  creed,  you'll  be  a  man." 


127 


FATHER  AND  SON 

Be  more  than  his  dad, 

Be  a  chum  to  the  lad ; 

Be  a  part  of  his  life 

Every  hour  of  the  day; 

Find  time  to  talk  with  him, 

Take  time  to  walk  with  him, 

Share  in  his  studies 

And  share  in  his  play; 

Take  him  to  places, 

To  ball  games  and  races, 

Teach  him  the  things 

That  you  want  him  to  know; 

Don't  live  apart  from  him, 

Don't  keep  your  heart  from  him, 

Be  his  best  comrade, 

He's  needing  you  so! 

Never  neglect  him, 
Though  young,   still  respect  him, 
Hear  his  opinions 
With  patience  and  pride ; 
Show  him  his  error, 
But  be  not  a  terror, 
Grim-visaged  and  fearful, 
When  he's  at  your  side. 


128 


Know  what  his  thoughts  are, 
Know  what  his  sports  are, 
Know  all  his  playmates, 
It's  easy  to  learn  to; 
Be  such  a  father 
That  when  troubles  gather 
You'll  be  the  first  one 
For  counsel,  he'll  turn  to. 

You  can  inspire  him 

With  courage,  and  fire  him 

Hot  with  ambition 

For  deeds  that  are  good ; 

He'll  not  betray  you 

Nor  illy  repay  you, 

If  you  have  taught  him 

The  things  that  you  should. 

Father  and  son 

Must  in  all  things  be  one  — 

Partners  in  trouble 

And  comrades  in  joy. 

More  than  a  dad 

Was  the  best  pal  you  had; 

Be  such  a  chum 

As  you  knew,  to  your  boy. 


129 


THE  JUNE  COUPLE 

She  is  fair  to  see  and  sweet, 
Dainty  from  her  head  to  feet, 
Modest,  as  her  blushing  shows, 
Happy,  as  her  smiles  disclose, 
And  the  young  man  at  her  side 
Nervously  attempts  to  hide 
Underneath  a  visage  grim 
That  the  fuss  is  bothering  him. 

Pause  a  moment,  happy  pair ! 
This  is  not  the  station  where 
Romance  ends,  and  wooing  stops 
And  the  charm  from  courtship  drops; 
This  is  but  the  outward  gate 
Where  the  souls  of  mortals  mate, 
But  the  border  of  the  land 
You  must  travel  hand  in  hand. 

You  who  come  to  marriage,  bring 
All  your  tenderness,  and  cling 
Steadfastly  to  all  the  ways 
That  have  marked  your  wooing  days. 
You  are  only  starting  out 
On  life's  roadways,  hedged  about 
Thick  with  roses  and  with  tares, 
Sweet  delights  and  bitter  cares. 
t 

130 


Heretofore  you've  only  played 

At  love's  game,  young  man  and  maid; 

Only  known  it  at  its  best; 

Now  you'll  have  to  face  its  test. 

You  must  prove  your  love  worth  while, 

Something  time  cannot  defile, 

Something  neither  care  nor  pain 

Can  destroy  or  mar  or  stain. 

You  are  now  about  to  show 
Whether  love  is  real  or  no; 
Yonder  down  the  lane  of  life 
You  will  find,  as  man  and  wife, 
Sorrows,  disappointments,  doubt, 
Hope  will  almost  flicker  out; 
But  if  rightly  you  are  wed 
Love  will  linger  where  you  tread. 

There  are  joys  that  you  will  share, 
Joys  to  balance  every  care; 
Arm  in  arm  remain,  and  you 
Will  not  fear  the  storms  that  brew, 
If  when  you  are  sorest  tried 
You  face  your  trials,  side  by  side. 
Now  your  wooing  days  are  done, 
And  your  loving  years  begun. 


AT  THE  DOOR 

>. 

He  wiped  his  shoes  before  his  door, 
But  ere  he  entered  he  did  more : 
'Twas  not  enough  to  cleanse  his  feet 
Of  dirt  they'd  gathered  in  the  street; 
He  stood  and  dusted  off  his  mind 
And  left  all  trace  of  care  behind. 
"  In  here  I  will  not  take,"  said  he, 
"  The  stains  the  day  has  brought  to  me. 

"  Beyond  this  door  shall  never  go 
The  burdens  that  are  mine  to  know; 
The  day  is  done,  and  here  I  leave 
The  petty  things  that  vex  and  grieve; 
What  clings  to  me  of  hate  and  sin 
To  them  I  will  not  carry  in; 
Only  the  good  shall  go  with  me 
For  their  devoted  eyes  to  see. 

"  I  will  not  burden  them  with  cares, 

Nor  track  the  home  with  grim  affairs; 

I  will  not  at  my  table  sit 

With  soul  unclean,  and  mind  unfit; 

Beyond  this  door  I  will  not  take 

The  outward   signs  of  inward  ache; 

I  will  not  take  a  dreary  mind 

Into    this    house    for    them    to    find." 

He  wiped  his  shoes  before  his  door, 
But  paused  to  do  a  little  more. 
132 


He  dusted  off  the  stains  of  strife, 
The  mud  that's  incident  to  life, 
The  blemishes  of  careless  thought, 
The  traces  of  the  fight  he'd  fought, 
The  selfish  humors  and  the  mean, 
And  when  he  entered  he  was  clean. 


DUTY 

To  do  your  little  bit  of  toil, 

To   play    life's    game    with    head    erect; 
To  stoop  to  nothing  that  would  soil 

Your  honor  or  your  self-respect; 
To  win  what  gold  and   fame  you  can, 
But  first  of  all  to  be  a  man. 

To  know  the  bitter  and  the  sweet, 

The    sunshine    and    the    days    of    rain; 
To  meet  both  victory  and  defeat, 

Nor  boast  too  loudly  nor  complain; 
To   face  whatever   fates  befall 
And  be  a  man  throughout  it  all. 

To  seek  success  in  honest  strife, 

But  not  to  value  it  so  much 
That,  winning  it,  you  go  through  life 

Stained  by  dishonor's  scarlet  touch. 
What  goal  or  dream  you  choose,   pursue, 
But  be  a  man  whate'er  you  do! 

133 


A  BEAR  STORY 

There  was  a  bear  —  his  name  was  Jim, 
An'  children  weren't  askeered  of  him, 
An'  he  lived  in  a  cave,  where  he 
Was  confortubbul  as  could  be, 
An'  in  that  cave,  so  my  Pa  said, 
Jim  always  kept  a  stock  of  bread 
An'  honey,  so  that  he  could  treat 
The  boys  an'  girls  along  his  street. 

An'  all  that  Jim  could  say  was  "  Woof !  " 
An'  give  a  grunt  that  went  like  "  Soof !  " 
An'  Pa  says  when  his  grunt  went  off 
It  sounded  jus'  like  Grandpa's  cough, 
Or  like  our  Jerry  when  he's  mad 
An'  growls  at  peddler  men  that's  bad. 
While  grown-ups  were  afraid  of  Jim, 
Kids  could  do  anything  with  him. 

One  day  a  little  boy  like  me 
That  had  a  sister  Marjorie, 
Was  walking  through  the  woods,  an'  they 
Heard  something  "  woofing  "  down  that  way, 
An'  they  was  scared  an'  stood  stock  still 
An'  wished  they  had  a  gun  to  kill 
Whatever  'twas,  but  little  boys 
Don't  have  no  guns  that  make  a  noise. 


134 


An'  soon  the  "  woofing  "  closer  grew, 
An'  then  a  bear  came  into  view, 
The  biggest  bear  you  ever  saw  — 
Ma's  muff  was  smaller  than  his  paw. 
He  saw  the  children  an'  he  said: 
"  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  kill  you  dead ; 
You  needn't  turn  away  an'  run; 
I'm  only  scarin'  you  for  fun." 

An'  then  he  stood  up  just  like  those 

Big  bears  in  circuses  an'  shows, 

An'  danced  a  jig,  an'  rolled  about 

An'  said  "Woof!  Woof!"  which  meant  "Look 

out!" 

An'  turned  a  somersault  as  slick 
As  any  boy  can  do  the  trick. 
Those  children  had  been  told  of  Jim 
An'  they  decided  it  was  him. 

They  stroked  his  nose  when  they  got  brave, 

An'  followed  him  into  his  cave, 

An'  Jim  asked  them  if  they  liked  honey, 

They  said  they  did.     Said  Jim :  "  That's  funny. 

I've  asked  a  thousand  boys  or  so 

That  question,  an'  not  one's  said  no." 

What  happened  then  I  cannot  say 

'Cause  next  I  knew  'twas  light  as  day. 


135 


AUTUMN  AT  THE  ORCHARD 

The  sumac's  flaming  scarlet  on  the  edges  o'  the 

lake, 
An'  the  pear  trees  are  invitin'  everyone  t'  come 

an'  shake. 
Now  the  gorgeous  tints  of  autumn  are  appearin' 

everywhere 
Till  it  seems  that  you  can  almost  see  the  Master 

Painter  there. 
There's  a  solemn  sort  o'  stillness  that's  pervadin' 

every  thing, 
Save   the    farewell   songs   to   summer   that   the 

feathered  tenors  sing, 
An'  you  quite  forget  the  city  where  disgruntled 

folks  are  kickin' 
Off  yonder  with  the  Pelletiers,  when  spies  are 

ripe  fer  pickin'. 

The  Holsteins  are  a-posin'  in  a  clearin'  near  a 

wood, 
Very  dignified  an'  stately,  just  as  though  they 

understood 
That  they're  lending  to  life's  pictures  just  the 

touch  the  Master  needs, 
An'  they're  preachin'  more  refinement  than  a  lot 

o'  printed  creeds. 
The  orchard's  fairly  groanin'  with  the  gifts  o' 

God  to  man, 
Just  as  though  they  meant  to   shame  us  who 

have  doubted  once  His  plan. 
136 


Oh,  there's  somethin'  most  inspirin'  to  a  soul  in 

need  o'  prickin' 
Off  yonder  with  the  Pelletiers  when  spies  are 

ripe  fer  pickin'. 

The    frisky    little    Shetlands    now    are    growin' 

shaggy  coats 
An'   acquirin'    silken   mufflers   of   their   own   to 

guard  their  throats; 
An'  a  Russian  wolf-hound  puppy  left  its  mother 

yesterday, 
An'  a  tinge  o'  sorrow  touched  us  as  we  saw  it 

go  away. 
For  the  sight  was  full  o'  meanin',  an'  we  knew, 

when  it  had  gone, 
'Twas  a  symbol  of  the  partin's  that  the  years  are 

bringin'  on. 
Oh,  a  feller  must  be  better  —  to  his  faith  he  can't 

help   stickin' 
Off  yonder  with  the  Pelletiers  when  spies  are  ripe 

fer  pickin'. 

The  year  is  almost  over,  now  at  dusk  the  valleys 

glow 
With  the  misty  mantle  chillin',  that  is  hangin' 

very  low. 
An'  each  mornin'  sees  the  maples  just  a  little 

redder  turned 
Than  they  were  the  night  we  left  'em,  an'  the 

elms  are  browner  burned. 
137 


An'  a  feller  can't  help  feelin',  an'  I  don't  care 

who  it  is, 
That  the  mind  that  works  such  wonders  has  a 

greater  power  than  his. 
Oh,  I  know  that  I'll  remember  till  life's  last  few 

sparks  are  flickin' 
The  lessons  out  at  Pelletiers  when  spies  were  ripe 

for  pickin'. 


WHEN  PA  COMES  HOME 

When  Pa  comes  home,  I'm  at  the  door, 

An'  then  he  grabs  me  off  the  floor 

An'  throws  me  up  an'  catches  me 

When   I   come   down,    an'   then,    says   he: 

"  Well,  how'd  you  get  along  to-day  ? 

An'  were  you  good,  an'  did  you  play, 

An'  keep  right  out  of  mamma's  way? 

An'  how'd  you  get  that  awful  bump 

Above   your   eye?     My,   what   a   lump! 

An*  who  spilled  jelly  on  your  shirt? 

An'  where'd  you  ever  find  the  dirt 

That's   on  your   hands?     And   my!      Oh,   my! 

I   guess  those   eyes  have   had   a   cry, 

They    look    so    red.        What    was    it,    pray? 

What  has  been  happening  here  to-day?" 

An*  then  he  drops  his  coat  an'  hat 
Upon  a  chair,  an'  says :    "  What's  that  ? 
138 


Who  knocked  that  engine  on  its  back 
An'  stepped  upon  that  piece  of  track  ?  " 
An'  then  he  takes  me  on  his  knee 
An'  says :     "  What's  this  that  now  I  see  ? 
Whatever  can  the  matter  be? 
Who  strewed  those  toys  upon  the  floor, 
An'   left   those   things   behind   the   door? 
Who  upset   all  those  parlor   chairs 
An'  threw  those  blocks  upon  the  stairs? 
I  guess  a  cyclone  called  to-day 
While   I   was  workin'   far  away. 
Who  was  it  worried  mamma  so? 
It  can't  be  anyone  I  know." 

An'  then  I  laugh  an'  say :    "  It's  me ! 

Me  did  most  ever'thing  you  see. 

Me   got   this   bump   the   time   me   tripped. 

An'  here  is  where  the  jelly  slipped 

Right  off  my  bread  upon  my  shirt, 

An'  when  me  tumbled  down  it  hurt. 

That's  how  me  got  all  over  dirt. 

Me  threw  those  building  blocks  downstairs, 

An'  me  upset  the  parlor  chairs, 

Coz  when  you're  playin'  train  you've  got 

To  move  things  'round  an  awful  lot." 

An'  then  my  Pa  he  kisses  me 

An'  bounces  me  upon  his  knee 

An'  says:     "Well,  well,  my  little  lad, 

What  glorious  fun  you  must  have  had !  " 

139 


MOTHER'S  DAY 

Gentle  hands  that  never  weary  toiling  in  love's 

vineyard  sweet, 
Eyes  that  seem   forever  cheery  when  our  eyes 

they  chance  to  meet, 
Tender,  patient,  brave,  devoted,  this  is  always 

mother's   way. 
Could  her  worth  in  gold  be  quoted  as  you  think 

of  her  to-day? 

There  shall  never  be  another  quite  so  tender, 

quite  so  kind 
As  the  patient  little  mother;  nowhere  on  this 

earth  you'll  find 
Her  affection  duplicated;  none  so  proud  if  you 

are  fine. 
Could  her  worth  be  overstated?     Not  by  any 

words  of  mine. 

Death  stood  near  the  hour  she  bore  us,  agony 

was  hers  to  know, 
Yet  she  bravely  faced  it  for  us,  smiling  in  her 

time  of  woe ; 
Down  the  years  how  oft  we've  tried  her,  often 

selfish,  heedless,  blind, 
Yet  with  love  alone  to  guide  her  she  was  never 

once  unkind. 


140 


Vain  are  all  our  tributes  to  her   if   in   words 

alone  they  dwell. 
We  must  live  the  praises  due  her;  there's  no 

other  way  to  tell 
Gentle  mother  that  we  love  her.    Would  you  say, 

as  you  recall 
All    the    patient    service    of    her,    you've    been 

worthy  of  it  all? 


DIVISION 

You  cannot  gather  every  rose, 

Nor  every  pleasure  claim, 
Nor  bask  in  every  breeze  that  blows, 

Nor  play  in  every  game. 

No  millionaire  could  ever  own 
The  world's  supply  of  pearls, 

And  no  man  here  has  ever  known 
All  of  the  pretty  girls. 

So  take  what  joy  may  come  your  way, 
And  envy  not  your  brothers; 

Enjoy  your  share  of  fun  each  day, 
And  leave  the  rest  for  others. 

141 


A  MAN 

A  man  doesn't  whine  at  his  losses. 

A  man  doesn't  whimper  and  fret, 
Or  rail  at  the  weight  of  his  crosses 

And  ask  life  to  rear  him  a  pet. 
A  man  doesn't  grudgingly  labor 

Or  look  upon  toil  as  a  blight; 
A  man  doesn't  sneer  at  his  neighbor 

Or   sneak    from   a   cause   that    is    right. 

A  man  doesn't  sulk  when  another 

Succeeds  where  his  efforts  have  failed; 
Doesn't  keep  all  his  praise  for  the  brother 

Whose  glory  is  publicly  hailed; 
And   pass    by   the    weak   and    the    humble 

As  though  they  were  not  of  his  clay; 
A  man  doesn't  ceaselessly  grumble 

When  things  are  not  going  his  way. 

A  man  looks  on  woman  as  tender 

And  gentle,  and  stands  at  her  side 
At  all  times  to  guard  and  defend  her, 

And  never  to  scorn  or  deride. 
A  man  looks  on  life  as  a  mission. 

To  serve,  just  so  far  as  he  can; 
A  man  holds  his  noblest  ambition 

On  earth  is  to  live  as  a  man. 


142 


A  VOW 

I  might  not  ever  scale  the  mountain  heights 

Where  all  the  great  men  stand  in  glory  now; 
I  may  not  ever  gain  the  world's  delights 

Or  win  a  wreath  of  laurel  for  my  brow; 
I  may  not  gain  the  victories  that  men 

Are  fighting  for,  nor  do  a  thing  to  boast  of ; 
I  may  not  get  a  fortune  here,  but  then, 

The  little  that  I  have  I'll  make  the  most  of. 

I'll  make  my  little  home  a  palace  fine, 

My  little  patch  of  green  a  garden  fair, 
And  I  shall  know  each  humble  plant  and  vine 

As  rich  men  know  their  orchid  blossoms  rare. 
My  little  home  may  not  be  much  to  see ; 

Its  chimneys  may  not  tower  far  above; 
But  it  will  be  a  mansion  great  to  me, 

For  in  its  walls  I'll  keep  a  hoard  of  love. 

I  will  not  pass  my  modest  pleasures  by 

To  grasp  at  shadows  of  more  splendid  things, 
Disdaining  what  of  joyousness  is  nigh 

Because  I  am  denied  the  joy  of  kings. 
But  I  will  laugh  and  sing  my  way  along, 

I'll  make  the  most  of  what  is  mine  to-day, 
And  if  I  never  rise  above  the  throng, 

I  shall  have  lived  a  full  life  anyway. 


143 


TREASURES 

Some  folks  I  know,  when  friends  drop  in 

To  visit  for  awhile  and  chin, 

Just  lead  them  round  the  rooms  and  halls 

And  show  them  pictures  on  their  walls, 

And  point  to  rugs  and  tapestries 

The  works  of  men  across  the  seas: 

Their  loving  cups  they  show  with  pride, 

To  eyes  that  soon  are  stretching  wide 

With  wonder  at  the  treasures  rare 

That  have  been  bought  and  gathered  there. 

But  when  folks  come  to  call  on  me, 
I've  no  such  things  for  them  to  see. 
No  picture  on  my  walls  is  great; 
I  have  no  ancient  family  plate; 
No  tapestry  of  rare  design 
Or  costly  woven  rugs  are  mine; 
I  have  no  loving  cup  to  show, 
Or  strange  and  valued  curio; 
But  if  my  treasures  they  would  see, 
I  bid  them  softly  follow  me. 

And  then  I  lead  them  up  the  stairs 
Through  trains  of  cars  and  Teddy  bears, 
And  to  a  little  room  we  creep 
Where  both  my  youngsters  lie  asleep, 
Close  locked  in  one  another's  arms. 
I  let  them  gaze  upon  their  charms, 
144 


I  let  them  see  the  legs  of  brown 
Curled  up  beneath  a  sleeping  gown, 
And  whisper  in  my  happiness: 
"  Behold  the  treasures  I  possess." 


CHALLENGE 

Life  is  a  challenge  to  the  bold, 
It  flings  its  gauntlet  down 

And  bids  us,  if  we  seek  for  gold 
And  glory  and  renown, 

To  come  and  take  them  from  its  store, 

It  will  not  meekly  hand  them  o'er. 

Life  is  a  challenge  all  must  meet, 

And  nobly  must  we  dare; 
Its  gold  is  tawdry  when  we  cheat, 

Its  fame  a  bitter  snare 
If  it  be  stolen  from  life's  clutch; 
Men  must  be  true  to  prosper  much. 

Life  is  a  challenge  and  its  laws 

Are  rigid  ones  and  stern; 
The  splendid  joy  of  real  applause 

Each  man  must  nobly  earn. 
It  makes  us  win  its  jewels  rare, 
But  gives  us  paste,  if  we're  unfair. 

145 


A  TOAST  TO  HAPPINESS 

To  happiness  I  raise  my  glass, 

The  goal  of  every  human, 
The  hope  of  every  clan  and  class 

And  every  man  and  woman. 
The  daydreams  of  the  urchin  there, 
The  sweet  theme  of  the  maiden's  prayer, 

The  strong  man's  one  ambition, 
The  sacred  prize  of  mothers  sweet, 
The  tramp  of  soldiers  on  the  street 

Have  all  the  selfsame  mission. 
Life  here  is  nothing  more  nor  less 
Than  just  a  quest  for  happiness. 

Some  seek  it  on  the  mountain  top, 

And  some  within  a  mine ; 
The  widow  in  her  notion  shop 

Expects  its  sun  to  shine. 
The  tramp  that  seeks  new  roads  to  fare, 
Is  one  with  king  and  millionaire 

In  this  that  each  is  groping 
On  different  roads,  in  different  ways, 
To  come  to  glad,  contented  days, 

And  shares  the  common  hoping. 
The  sound  of  martial  fife  and  drum 
Is  born  of  happiness  to  come. 


146 


Yet  happiness  is  always  here 

Had  we  the  eyes  to  see  it; 
No  breast  but  holds  a  fund  of  cheer 

Had  man  the  will  to  free  it. 
Tis  there  upon  the  mountain  top, 
Or  in  the  widow's  notion  shop, 

'Tis  found  in  homes  of  sorrow; 
'Tis  woven  in  the  memories 
Of  happier,  brighter  days  than  these, 

The  gift,  not  of  to-morrow 
But  of  to-day,  and  in  our  tears 
Some  touch  of  happiness  appears. 

'Tis  not  a  joy  that's  born  of  wealth: 

The  poor  man  may  possess  it. 
'Tis  not  alone  the  prize  of  health: 

No  sickness  can  repress  it. 
'Tis  not  the  end  of  mortal  strife, 
The  sunset  of  the  day  of  life, 

Or  but  the  old  should  find  it; 
It  is  the  bond  twixt  God  and  man, 
The  touch  divine  in  all  we  plan, 

And  has  the  soul  behind  it. 
And  so  this  toast  to  happiness, 
The  seed  of  which  we  all  possess. 


147 


GUESSING  TIME 

It's  guessing  time  at  our  house;  every  evening 

after  tea 
We   start  guessing  what  old   Santa's   going  to 

leave  us  on  our  tree. 
Everyone  of  us  holds  secrets  that  the  others  try 

to  steal, 
And  that  eyes  and  lips  are  plainly  having  trouble 

to  conceal. 
And  a  little  lip  that  quivered  just  a  bit  the  other 

night 
Was  a  sad  and  startling  warning  that  I  mustn't 

guess  it  right. 

"  Guess  what  you  will  get  for  Christmas !  "  is  the 
cry  that  starts  the  fun. 

And  I  answer :  "  Give  the  letter  with  which  the 
name's  begun." 

Oh,  the  eyes  that  dance  around  me  and  the  joy 
ous  faces  there 

Keep  me  nightly  guessing  wildly :  "  Is  it  some 
thing  I  can  wear  ?  " 

I  implore  them  all  to  tell  me  in  a  frantic  sort 
of  way 

And  pretend  that  I  am  puzzled,  just  to  keep  them 
feeling  gay. 


148 


Oh,  the  wise  and  knowing  glances  that  across  the 

table  fly 
And  the  winks  exchanged  with  mother,  that  they 

think  I  never  spy; 
Oh,  the  whispered  confidences  that  are  poured 

into  her  ear, 
And  the  laughter  gay  that  follows  when  I  try 

my  best  to  hear! 
Oh,  the  shouts  of  glad  derision  when  I  bet  that 

it's  a  cane, 
And  the   merry  answering  chorus :      "  No,   it's 

not.     Just  guess  again !  " 

It's  guessing  time  at  our  house,  and  the  fun  is 
running  fast, 

And  I  wish  somehow  this  contest  of  delight 
could  always  last, 

For  the  love  that's  in  their  faces  and  their  laugh 
ter  ringing  clear 

Is  their  dad's  most  precious  present  when  the 
Christmas  time  is  near. 

And  soon  as  it  is  over,  when  the  tree  is  bare 
and  plain, 

I  shall  start  in  looking  forward  to  the  time  to 
guess  again. 


149 


UNDERSTANDING 

When   I   was   young   and    frivolous   and   never 

stopped  to  think, 
When  I  was  always  doing  wrong,  or  just  upon 

the  brink; 
When  I  was  just  a  lad  of  seven  and  eight  and 

nine  and  ten, 
It  seemed  to  me  that  every  day  I  got  in  trouble 

then, 
And  strangers  used  to  shake  their  heads  and  say 

I  was  no  good, 
But   father  always   stuck  to  me  —  it   seems   he 

understood. 

I  used  to  have  to  go  to  him  'most  every  night 
and  say 

The  dreadful  things  that  I  had  done  to  worry 
folks  that  day. 

I  know  I  didn't  mean  to  be  a  turmoil  round  the 
place, 

And  with  the  womenfolks  about  forever  in  dis 
grace  ; 

To  do  the  way  they  said  I  should,  I  tried  the 
best  I  could, 

But  though  they  scolded  me  a  lot  —  my  father 
understood. 


He  never  seemed  to  think  it  queer  that  I  should 

risk  my  bones, 
Or  fight  with  other  boys  at  times,  or  pelt  a  cat 

with  stones; 
An'  when  I'd  break  a  window  pane,  it  used  to 

make  him  sad, 
But  though  the  neighbors  said  I  was,  he  never 

thought  me  bad; 
He  never  whipped  me,  as  they  used  to  say  to  me 

he  should; 
That    boys   can't   always   do   what's    right  —  it 

seemed  he  understood. 

Now  there's  that  little  chap  of  mine,  just  full  of 

life  and  fun, 
Comes  up  to  me  with  solemn  face  to  tell  the 

bad  he's  done. 

It's  natural  for  any  boy  to  be  a  roguish  elf, 
He  hasn't  time  to  stop  and  think  and  figure  for 

himself, 
And  though  the  womenfolks  insist  that  I  should 

take  a  hand, 
They've  never  been  a  boy  themselves,  and  they 

don't  understand. 

Some  day  I've  got  to  go  up  there,  and  make  a 
sad  report 


I 

And  tell  the  Father  of  us  all  where  I  have  fallen 

short; 
And  there  will  be  a  lot  of  wrong  I  never  meant 

to  do, 
A  lot  of  smudges  on  my  sheet  that  He  will  have 

to  view. 
And  little  chance  for  heavenly  bliss,  up  there, 

will  I  command, 
Unless  the  Father  smiles  and  says :    "  My  boy, 

I  understand." 

PEOPLE  LIKED  HIM 

People  liked  him,  not  because 

He  was  rich  or  known  to  fame; 
He  had  never  won  applause 

As  a  star  in  any  game. 
His  was  not  a  brilliant  style, 

His  was  not  a  forceful  way, 
But  he  had  a  gentle   smile 

And  a  kindly  word  to  say. 

Never  arrogant  or  proud, 

On  he  went  with  manner  mild; 
Never  quarrelsome  or  loud, 

Just  as  simple  as  a  child; 
Honest,  patient,  brave  and  true : 

Thus  he  lived  from  day  to  day, 
Doing  what  he  found  to  do 

In  a  cheerful  sort  of  way. 
152 


Wasn't  one  to  boast  of  gold 

Or  belittle  it  with  sneers, 
Didn't  change  from  hot  to  cold, 

Kept  his  friends  throughout  the  years, 
Sort  of  man  you  like  to  meet 

Any  time  or  any  place. 
There  was  always  something  sweet 

And  refreshing  in  his  face. 

Sort  of  man  you'd  like  to  be : 

Balanced  well  and  truly  square; 
Patient  in  adversity, 

Generous  when  his  skies  were  fair. 
Never  lied  to  friend  or  foe, 

Never  rash  in  word  or  deed, 
Quick  to  come  and  slow  to  go 

In  a  neighbor's  time  of  need. 

Never  rose  to  wealth  or  fame, 

Simply  lived,  and  simply  died, 
But  the  passing  of  his  name 

Left  a  sorrow,  far  and  wide. 
Not  for  glory  he'd  attained, 

Nor  for  what  he  had  of  pelf, 
Were  the  friends  that  he  had  gained, 
But  for  what  he  was  himself. 


153 


WHEN    FATHER    SHOOK    THE    STOVE 

'Twas  not  so  many  years  ago, 

Say,  twenty-two  or  three, 
When  zero  weather  or  below 

Held  many  a  thrill  for  me. 
Then  in  my  icy  room  I  slept 

A  youngster's  sweet  repose, 
And  always  on  my  form  I  kept 

My  flannel  underclothes. 
Then  I  was  roused  by  sudden  shock 

Though  still  to  sleep  I  strove, 
I  knew  that  it  was  seven  o'clock 

When  father  shook  the  stove. 

I  never  heard  him  quit  his  bed 

Or  his  alarm  clock  ring; 
I  never  heard  his  gentle  tread, 

Or  his  attempts  to  sing; 
The  sun  that  found  my  window  pane 

On  me  was  wholly  lost, 
Though  many  a  sunbeam  tried  in  vain 

To  penetrate  the  frost. 
To  human  voice  I  never  stirred, 

But  deeper  down  I  dove 
Beneath  the  covers,  when  I  heard 

My  father  shake  the  stove. 


154 


To-day  it  all  comes  back  to  me 

And  I  can  hear  it  still; 
He  seemed  to  take  a  special  glee 

In  shaking  with  a  will. 
He  flung  the  noisy  dampers  back, 

Then  rattled  steel  on  steel, 
Until  the  force  of  his  attack 

The  building  seemed  to  feel. 
Though  I'd  a  youngster's  heavy  eyes 

All  sleep  from  them  he  drove; 
It  seemed  to  me  the  dead  must  rise 

When  father  shook  the  stove. 

Now  radiators  thump  and  pound 

And  every  room  is  warm, 
And  modern  men  new  ways  have  found 

To  shield  us  from  the  storm. 
The  window  panes  are  seldom  glossed 

The  way  they  used  to  be; 
The  pictures  left  by  old  Jack  Frost 

Our  children  never  see. 
And  now  that  he  has  gone  to  rest 

In  God's  great  slumber  grove, 
I  often  think  those  days  were  best 

When  father  shook  the  stove. 


155 


HOUSE-HUNTING 

Time  was  when  spring  returned  we  went 
To  find  another  home  to  rent; 
We  wanted  fresher,  cleaner  walls, 
And  bigger  rooms  and  wider  halls, 
And  open  plumbing  and  the  dome 
That  made  the  fashionable  home. 

But  now  with  spring  we  want  to  sell, 

And  seek  a  finer  place  to  dwell. 

Our  thoughts  have  turned  from  dens  and  domes ; 

We  want  the  latest  thing  in  homes; 

To  life  we'll  not  be  reconciled 

Until  we  have  a  bathroom  tiled. 

A  butler's  pantry  we  desire, 
Although  no  butler  do  we  hire ; 
Nell's  life  will  be  one  round  of  gloom 
Without  a  closet  for  the  broom, 
And  mine  will  dreary  be  and  sour 
Unless  the  bathroom  has  a  shower. 

For  months  and  months  we've  sat  and  dreamed 

Of  paneled  walls  and  ceilings  beamed 

And  built-in  cases  for  the  books, 

An  attic  room  to  be  the  cook's. 

No  house  will  she  consent  to  view 

Unless  it  has  a  sun  room,  too. 


156 


There  must  be  wash  bowls  here  and  there 
To  save  much  climbing  of  the  stair; 
A  sleeping  porch  we  both  demand  — 
This  fad  has  swept  throughout  the  land  — 
And,  Oh,  'twill  give  her  heart  a  wrench 
Not  to  possess  a  few  doors,  French. 

I  want  to  dig  and  walk  around 
At  least  full  fifty  feet  of  ground; 
She  wants  the  latest  style  in  tubs; 
I  want  more  room  for  trees  and  shrubs, 
And  a  garage,  with  light  and  heat, 
That  can  be  entered  from  the  street. 

The  trouble  is  the  things  we  seek 
Cannot  be  bought  for  ten-a-week. 
And  all  the  joys  for  which  we  sigh 
Are  just  too  rich  for  us  to  buy. 
We  have  the  taste  to  cut  a  dash: 
The  thing  we're  lacking  most  is  cash. 


157 


AN  EASY  WORLD 

It's  an  easy  world  to  live  in  if  you  choose  to 

make  it  so; 
You  never  need  to  suffer,  save  the  griefs  that 

all  must  know; 
If  you'll   stay  upon  the  level  and  will  do  the 

best  you  can 
You  will  never  lack  the  friendship  of  a  kindly 

fellow  man. 

Life's  an  easy  road  to  travel  if  you'll  only  walk 

it  straight; 
There  are  many  here  to  help  you  in  your  little 

bouts  with  fate; 
When  the  clouds  begin  to  gather  and  your  hopes 

begin  to  fade, 
If  you've  only  toiled  in  honor  you  won't  have 

to  call  for  aid. 

But  if  you've  bartered  friendship  and  the  faith 

on  which  it  rests 
For  a  temporary  winning;  if  you've  cheated  in 

the  tests, 
If  with  promises  you've  broken,  you  have  chilled 

the  hearts  of  men; 
It  is  vain  to  look  for  friendship  for  it  will  not 

come  again. 


158 


Oh,  the  world  is  full  of  kindness,  thronged  with 

men  who  want  to  be 
Of  some  service  to  their  neighbors  and  they'll 

run  to  you  or  me 
When   we're   needing  their  assistance   if   we've 

lived  upon  the  square, 
But   they'll   spurn   us   in   our   trouble   if   we've 

always  been  unfair. 

It's  an  easy  world  to  live  in;  all  you  really  need 

to  do 
Is  the  decent  thing  and  proper  and  then  friends 

will  flock  to  you; 
But  let  dishonor  trail  you  and  some  stormy  day 

you'll  find 
To  your  heart's  supremest  sorrow  that  you've 

made  the  world  unkind. 


159 


THE  STATES 

There  is  no  star  within  the  flag 

That's  brighter  than  its  brothers, 
And  when  of  Michigan  I  brag, 

I'm  boasting  of  the  others. 
Just  which  is  which  no  man  can  say  — 

One  star  for  every  state 
Gleams  brightly  on  our  flag  to-day, 

And  every  one  is  great. 

The  stars  that  gem  the  skies  at  night 

May  differ  in  degree, 
And  some  are  pale  and  some  are  bright, 

But  in  our  flag  we  see 
A  sky  of  blue  wherein  the  stars 

Are  equal  in  design; 
Each  has  the  radiance  of  Mars 

And  all  are  yours  and  mine. 

The  glory  that  is  Michigan's 

Is  Colorado's  too; 
The  same  sky  Minnesota  spans, 

The  same  sun  warms  it  through; 
And  all  are  one  beneath  the  flag, 

A  common  hope  is  ours; 
Our  country  is  the  mountain  crag, 

The  valley  and  its  flowers. 

T  60 


The  land  we  love  lies  far  away 

As  well  as  close  at  hand ; 
He  has  no  vision  who  would  say: 

This  state's  my  native  land. 
Though  sweet  the  charms  he  knows  the  best, 

Deep  down  within  his  heart 
The  farthest  east,  the  farthest  west 

Of  him  must  be  a  part. 

There  is  no  star  within  the  flag 

That's  brighter  than  its  brothers; 
So  when  of  Michigan  I  brag 

I'm  boasting  of  the  others. 
We  share  alike  one  purpose  true; 

One  common  end  awaits; 
We  must  in  all  we  dream  or  do 

Remain  United  States, 


161 


THE      OBLIGATION      OF      FRIENDSHIP 

You  ought  to  be  fine  for  the  sake  of  the  folks 

Who  think  you  are  fine. 
If  others  have  faith  in  you  doubly  you're  bound 

To  stick  to  the  line. 

It's  not  only  on  you  that  dishonor  descends : 
You  can't   hurt  yourself   without   hurting  your 
friends. 

You  ought  to  be  true  for  the  sake  of  the  folks 

Who  believe  you  are  true. 

You  never   should   stoop   to   a   deed   that   your 
friends 

Think  you  wouldn't  do. 
If  you're  false  to  yourself,  be  the  blemish  but 

small, 

You  have  injured  your  friends;  you've  been  false 
to  them  all. 

For  friendship,  my  boy,  is  a  bond  between  men 

That  is  founded  on  truth : 
It  believes  in  the  best  of  the  ones  that  it  loves, 

Whether  old  man  or  youth; 
And  the  stern  rule  it  lays  down  for  me  and  for 

you 

Is  to  be  what  our  friends  think  we  are,  through 
and  through. 


162 


UNDER  THE  SKIN  OF  MEN 

Did  you  ever  sit  down  and  talk  with  men 

In  a  serious  sort  of  a  way, 
On  their  views  of  life  and  ponder  then 

On  all  that  they  have  to  say? 
If  not,  you  should  in  some  quiet  hour; 

It's  a  glorious  thing  to  do : 
For  you'll  find  that  back  of  the  pomp  and  power 

Most  men  have  a  goal  in  view. 

They'll  tell  you  then  that  their  aim  is  not 

The  clink  of  the  yellow  gold; 
That  not  in  the  worldly  things  they've  got 

Would  they  have  their  stories  told. 
They'll  say  the  joys  that  they  treasure  most 

Are  their  good  friends,  tried  and  true, 
And  an  honest  name  for  their  own  to  boast 

And  peace  when  the  day  is  through. 

I've  talked  with  men  and  I  think  I  know 

What's  under  the  toughened  skin. 
I've  seen  their  eyes  grow  bright  and  glow 

With  the  fire  that  burns  within. 
And  back  of  the  gold  and  back  of  the  fame 

And  back  of  the  selfish  strife, 
In  most  men's  breasts  you'll  find  the  flame 

Of  the  nobler  things  of  life. 


163 


THE  FINER  THOUGHT 

How  fine  it  is  at  night  to  say: 
"  I  have  not  wronged  a  soul  to-day. 
I  have  not  by  a  word  or  deed, 
In  any  breast  sowed  anger's  seed, 
Or  caused  a  fellow  being  pain; 
Nor  is  there  on  my  crest  a  stain 
That  shame  has  left.     In  honor's  way, 
With  head  erect,  I've  lived  this  day." 

When  night  slips  down  and  day  departs 
And  rest  returns  to  weary  hearts, 
How  fine  it  is  to  close  the  book 
Of  records  for  the  day,  and  look 
Once  more  along  the  traveled  mile 
And  find  that  all  has  been  worth  while; 
To  say :  "  In  honor  I  have  toiled ; 
My  plume  is  spotless  and  unsoiled." 

Yet  cold  and  stern  a  man  may  be 

Retaining  his  integrity; 

And  he  may  pass  from  day  to  day 

A  spirit  dead,  in  living  clay, 

Observing  strictly  morals,  laws, 

Yet  serving  but  a  selfish  cause; 

So  it  is  not  enough  to  say: 

"  I  have  not  stooped  to  shame  to-day! " 


164 


It  is  a  finer,  nobler  thought 

When  day  is  done  and  night  has  brought 

The  contemplative  hours  and  sweet, 

And  rest  to  weary  hearts  and  feet, 

If  man  can  stand  in  truth  and  say: 

"  I  have  been  useful  here  to-day. 

Back  there  is  one  I  chanced  to  see 

With  hope  newborn  because  of  me. 

"  This  day  in  honor  I  have  toiled ; 
My  shining  crest  is  still  unsoiled; 
But  on  the  mile  I  leave  behind 
Is  one  who  says  that  I  was  kind; 
And  someone  hums  a  cheerful  song 
Because  I  chanced  to  come  along." 
Sweet  rest  at  night  that  man  shall  own 
Who  has  not  lived  his  day  alone. 


165 


STUCK 

I'm  up  against  it  day  by  day, 

My  ignorance  is  distressing; 
The  things  I  don't  know  on  the  way 

I'm  busily  confessing. 
Time  was  I  used  to  think  I  knew 

Some  useful  bits  of  knowledge 
And  could  be  sure  of  one  or  two 

Real  facts  I'd  gleaned  in  college. 
But  I'm  unfitted  for  the  task 
Of  answering  things  my  boy  can  ask. 

Now,  who  can  answer  queries  queer 

That  four-year-olds  can  think  up? 
And  tell  in  simple  phrase  and  clear 

Why  fishes  do  not  drink  up 
The  water  in  the  streams  and  lakes, 

Or  where  the  wind  is  going, 
And  tell  exactly  how  God  makes 

The  roses  that  are  growing? 
I'm  sure  I  cannot  satisfy 
Each  little  when,  and  how,  and  why. 

Had  I  the  wisdom  of  a  sage 
Possessed  of  all  the  learning 

That  can  be  gleaned  from  printed  page 
From  bookworm's  closest  turning, 

That  eager  knowledge-seeking  lad 
That  questions  me  so  gayly 
1 66 


Could  still  go  round  and  boast  he  had 

With  queries  floored  me  daily. 
He'll  stick,  I'll  bet,  in  less  than  five 
Brief  minutes  any  man  alive. 


ETERNAL  FRIENDSHIP 

Who  once  has  had  a  friend  has  found 

The  link  'twixt  mortal  and  divine; 
Though  now  he  sleeps  in  hallowed  ground, 

He  lives  in  memory's  sacred  shrine; 
And  there  he  freely  moves  about, 

A  spirit  that  has  quit  the  clay, 
And  in  the  times  of  stress  and  doubt 

Sustains  his  friend  throughout  the  day. 

No  friend  we  love  can  ever  die; 

The  outward  form  but  disappears; 
I  know  that  all  my  friends  are  nigh 

Whenever  I  am  moved  to  tears. 
And  when  my  strength  and  hope  are  gone, 

The  friends,  no  more,  that  once  I  knew, 
Return  to  cheer  and  urge  me  on 

Just  as  they  always  used  to  do. 

They  whisper  to  me  in  the  dark 

Kind  words  of  counsel  and  of  cheer ; 

When  hope  has  flickered  to  a  spark 
I  feel  their  gentle  spirits  near. 
167 


And  Oh!  because  of  them  I  strive 
With  all  the  strength  that  I  can  call 

To  keep  their  friendship  still  alive 
And  to  be  worthy  of  them  all. 

Death  does  not  end  our  friendships  true; 

We  all  are  debtors  to  the  dead; 
There,  wait  on  everything  we  do 

The  splendid  souls  who've  gone  ahead. 
To  them  I  hold  that  we  are  bound 

By  double  pledges  to  be  fine. 
Who  once  has  had  a  friend  has  found 

The  link  'twixt  mortal  and  divine. 


FAITH 

I    believe    in    the    world    and    its    bigness    and 

splendor : 
That  most  of  the  hearts  beating  round  us  are1 

tender ; 
That  days  are  but  footsteps  and  years  are  but 

miles 

That  lead  us  to  beauty  and  singing  and  smiles : 
That  roses  that  blossom  and  toilers  that  plod 
Are  filled  with  the  glorious  spirit  of  God. 

I  believe  in  the  purpose  of  everything  living: 
That  taking  is  but  the  forerunner  of  giving; 
1 68 


That   strangers  are   friends  that  we   some   day 

may  meet; 

And  not  all  the  bitter  can  equal  the  sweet; 
That   creeds   are   but   colors,   and   no   man  has 

said 
That  God  loves  the  yellow  rose  more  than  the 

red. 

I  believe  in  the  path  that  to-day  I  am  treading, 
That  I  shall  come  safe  through  the  dangers  I'm 

dreading ; 

That  even  the  scoffer  shall  turn  from  his  ways 
And   some   day   be   won  back   to   trust   and   to 

praise ; 
That  the  leaf  on  the  tree  and  the  thing  we  call 

Man 
Are  sharing  alike  in  His  infinite  plan. 

I  believe  that  all  things  that  are  living  and 
breathing 

Some  richness  of  beauty  to  earth  are  bequeath 
ing; 

That  all  that  goes  out  of  this  world  leaves 
behind 

Some  duty  accomplished  for  mortals  to  find; 

That  the  humblest  of  creatures  our  praise  is 
deserving, 

For  it,  with  the  wisest,  the  Master  is  serving. 


Nobody  hates  me  more  than  I; 

No  enemy  have  I  to-day 
That  I  so  bravely  must  defy; 

There  are  no  foes  along  my  way, 
However  bitter  they  may  be, 
So  powerful  to  injure  me 
As  I  am,  nor  so  quick  to  spoil 
The  beauty  of  my  bit  of  toil. 

Nobody  harms  me  more  than  I; 

No  one  is  meaner  unto  me; 
Of  all  the  foes  that  pass  me  by 

I  am  the  worst  one  that  I  see. 
I  am  the  dangerous  man  to  fear; 
I  am  the  cause  of  sorrow  here; 
Of  all  men  'gainst  my  hopes  inclined 
I  am  myself  the  most  unkind. 

I  do  more  harmful  things  to  me 
Than  all  the  men  who  seem  to  hate ; 

I  am  the  fellow  that  should  be 

More  dreaded  than  the  works  of  fate. 

I  am  the  one  that  I  must  fight 

With  all  my  will  and  all  my  might; 

My  foes  are  better  friends  to  me 

Than  I  have  ever  proved  to  be. 


170 


I  am  the  careless  foe  and  mean; 

I  am  the  selfish  rival  too; 
My  enmity  to  me  is  seen 

In  almost  everything  I  do. 
More  courage  it  requires  to  beat 
Myself,  than  all  the  foes  I  meet; 
I  am  more  traitorous  to  me 
Than  other  men  could  ever  be. 

In  every  struggle  I  have  lost 

I  am  the  one  that  was  to  blame ; 
My  weaknesses  cannot  be  glossed 

By  glib  excuses.     I  was  lame. 
I  that  would  dare  for  fame  or  pelf 
Am  far  less  daring  with  myself. 
I  care  not  who  my  foes  may  be, 
I  am  my  own  worst  enemy. 


171 


THE    THINGS    THAT    HAVEN'T    BEEN 
DONE  BEFORE 

The  things  that  haven't  been  done  before, 

Those  are  the  things  to  try; 
Columbus  dreamed  of  an  unknown  shore 

At  the  rim  of  the  far-flung  sky, 
And  his  heart  was  bold  and  his  faith  was  strong 

As  he  ventured  in  dangers  new, 
And  he  paid  no  heed  to  the  jeering  throng 

Or  the  fears  of  the  doubting  crew. 

The  many  will  follow  the  beaten  track 

With  guideposts  on  the  way, 
They  live  and  have  lived  for  ages  back 

With  a  chart  for  every  day. 
Someone  has  told  them  it's  safe  to  go 

On  the  road  he  has  traveled  o'er, 
And  all  that  they  ever  strive  to  know 

Are  the  things  that  were  known  before. 

A  few  strike  out,  without  map  or  chart, 

Where  never  a  man  has  been, 
From  the  beaten  paths  they  draw  apart 

To  see  what  no  man  has  seen. 
There  are  deeds  they  hunger  alone  to  do; 

Though  battered  and  bruised  and  sore, 
They  blaze  the  path  for  the  many,  who 

Do  nothing  not  done  before. 


172 


The  things  that  haven't  been  done  before 

Are  the  tasks  worth  while  to-day; 
Are  you  one  of  the  flock  that  follows,  or 

Are  you  one  that  shall  lead  the  way? 
Are  you  one  of  the  timid  souls  that  quail 

At  the  jeers  of  a  doubting  crew, 
Or  dare  you,  whether  you  win  or  fail, 

Strike  out  for  a  goal  that's  new? 


REVENGE 

If  I  had  hatred  in  my  heart  toward  my  fellow 

man, 
If  I  were  pressed  to  do  him  ill,  to  conjure  up  a 

plan 
To  wound  him  sorely  and  to  rob  his  days  of  all 

their  joy, 
I'd  wish  his  wife  would  go  away  and  take  their 

little  boy. 

\ 
I'd  waste  no  time  on  curses  vague,  nor  try  to 

take  his  gold, 
Nor    seek   to    shatter   any   plan    that    he    might 

dearly  hold. 
A  crueler  revenge  than  -  that   for  him  I  would 

bespeak : 
I'd  wish  his  wife  and  little  one  might  leave  him 

for  a  week. 

173 


I'd  wish  him  all  the  loneliness  that  comes  with 

loss  of  those 
Who  fill  his  life  with  laughter  and  contentment 

and  repose. 
I'd  wish  him  empty  rooms  at  night  and  mocking 

stairs  to   squeak 
That  neither  wife  nor  little  boy  will  greet  him 

for  a  week. 

If    I    despised   my    fellow    man,    I'd    make    my 

hatred  known 
By  wishing  him  a   week   or  two   of   living   all 

alone ; 
I'd  let  him  know  the  torture  that   is  mine   to 

bear  to-day, 
For  Buddy  and  his  mother  now  are  miles  and 

miles  away. 


PROMOTION 

Promotion  comes  to  him  who  sticks 
Unto  his  work  and  never  kicks, 
Who  watches  neither  clock  nor  sun 
To  tell  him  when  his  task  is  done ; 
Who  toils  not  by  a  stated  chart, 
Defining  to  a  jot  his  part, 
But  gladly  does  a  little  more 
Than  he's  remunerated  for. 
174 


The  man,  in  factory  or  shop, 
Who  rises  quickly  to  the  top, 
Is  he  who  gives  what  can't  be  bought: 
Intelligent  and  careful  thought. 

No  one  can  say  just  when  begins 
The  service  that  promotion  wins, 
Or  when  it  ends;  'tis  not  defined 
By  certain  hours  or  any  kind 
Of  system  that  has  been  devised; 
Merit  cannot  be  systemized. 
It  is  at  work  when  it's  at  play; 
It  serves  each  minute  of  the  day ; 
'Tis  always  at  its  post,  to  see 
New  ways  of  help  and  use  to  be. 
Merit  from  duty  never  slinks, 
Its  cardinal  virtue  is  —  it  thinks ! 

Promotion  comes  to  him  who  tries 
Not  solely  for  a  selfish  prize, 
But  day  by  day  and  year  by  year 
Holds  his  employer's  interests  dear. 
Who  measures  not  by  what  he  earns 
The  sum  of  labor  he  returns, 
Nor  counts  his  day  of  toiling  through 
Till  he's  done  all  that  he  can  do. 
His  strength  is  not  of  muscle  bred, 
But  of  the  heart  and  of  the  head. 
The  man  who  would  the  top  attain 
Must  demonstrate  he  has  a  brain. 
175 


EXPECTATION 

Most    folks,    as    I've   noticed,    in   pleasure    an' 

strife, 

Are  always  expecting  too  much  out  of  life. 
They  wail  an'  they  fret 
Just   because   they   don't   get 
The  best  o'  the  sunshine,  the  fairest  o'  flowers, 
The  finest  o'  features,  the  strongest  o'  powers; 
They   whine   an'    they   whimper   an'    curse    an' 

condemn, 
Coz  life  isn't  always  bein'  partial  to  them. 

Notwithstandin'  the  pain  an'  the  sufferin'  they 

see, 
They  cling  to  the  notion  that  they  should  go 

free: 

That  they  shouldn't  share 
In  life's  trouble  an'  care 

But  should  always  be  happy  an'  never  perplexed, 
An'  never  discouraged  or  beaten  or  vexed. 
When  life  treats  'em  roughly  an'  jolts  'em  with 

care, 
They  seem  to  imagine  it's  bein'  unfair. 

It's  a  curious  notion  folks  hold  in  their  pride, 
That  their  souls  should  never  be  tested  or  tried; 

That  others  must  mourn 

An'  be  sick  an'  forlorn 


176 


An'  stand  by  the  biers  of  their  loved  ones  an' 

weep, 
But  life  from  such  sorrows  their  bosoms  must 

keep. 

Oh,  they  mustn't  know  what  it  means  to  be  sad, 
Or  they'll  wail  that  the  treatment  they're  gettin' 

is  bad. 

Now  life  as  I  view  it  means  pleasure  an'  pain, 
An'  laughter  an'  weepin'  an'  sunshine  an'  rain, 

An'  takin'  an'  givin' ; 

An'  all  who  are  livin' 

Must  face  it  an'  bear  it  the  best  that  they  can 
Believin'  great  Wisdom  is  workin'  the  plan. 
An'  no  one  should  ever  complain  it's  unfair 
Because  at  the  moment  he's  tastin'  despair. 


HARD  WORK 

One  day,  in  ages  dark  and  dim, 

A  toiler,  weary,  worn  and  faint, 
Who  found  his  task  too  much  for  him, 

Gave  voice  unto  a  sad  complaint. 
And  seeking  emphasis  to  give 

Unto  his  trials  (day  ill-starred!) 
Coupled  to  "  work  "  this  adjective, 

This  little  word  of  terror:     Hard. 
177 


And  from  that  day  to  this  has  work 

Its   frightening  description  worn; 
'Tis  spoken  daily  by  the  shirk, 

The  first  cloud  on  the  sky  at  morn. 
To-day  when  there  are  tasks  to  do, 

Save  that  we  keep  ourselves  on  guard 
With  fearful  doubtings  them  we  view, 

And  think  and  speak  of  them  as  hard. 

That  little  but  ill-chosen  word 

Has  wrought  great  havoc  with  men's  souls, 
Has  chilled  the  hearts  ambition  stirred 

And  held  the  pass  to  splendid  goals. 
Great  dreams  have  faded  and  been  lost, 

Fine  youth  by  it  been  sadly  marred 
As  plants  beneath  a  withering  frost, 

Because  men  thought  and  whispered :  "Hard.5 

Let's  think  of  work  in  terms  of  hope 

And  speak  of  it  with  words  of  praise, 
And  tell  the  joy  it  is  to  grope 

Along  the  new,  untrodden  ways! 
Let's  break  this  habit  of  despair 

And  cheerfully  our  task  regard; 
The  road  to  happiness  lies  there: 

Why  think  or  speak  of  it  as  hard? 


178 


GRATITUDE 

Be  grateful  for  the  kindly  friends  that  walk 
along  your  way; 

Be  grateful  for  the  skies  of  blue  that  smile 
from  day  to  day; 

Be  grateful  for  the  health  you  own,  the  work 
you  find  to  do, 

For  round  about  you  there  are  men  less  fortu 
nate  than  you. 

Be   grateful    for   the   growing   trees,   the   roses 

soon  to  bloom, 
The  tenderness  of  kindly  hearts  that  shared  your 

days  of  gloom; 
Be   grateful    for   the   morning   dew,    the   grass 

beneath  your  feet, 
The  soft  caresses  of  your  babes  and  all  their 

laughter  sweet. 

Acquire  the  grateful  habit,  learn  to  see  how  blest 

you  are, 
How  much  there  is  to  gladden  life,  how  little 

life  to  mar! 
And  what  if  rain  shall  fall  to-day  and  you  with 

grief  are  sad; 
Be  grateful  that  you  can  recall  the  joys  that 

you  have  had. 


179 


A  REAL  MAN 

Men  are  of  two  kinds,  and  he 

Was  of  the  kind  I'd  like  to  be. 

Some  preach  their  virtues,  and  a  few 

Express  their  lives  by  what  they  do. 

That    sort    was    he.      No    flowery    phrase 

Or  glibly  spoken  words  of  praise 

Won  friends  for  him.     He  wasn't  cheap 

Or  shallow,  but  his  course  ran  deep, 

And  it  was  pure.     You  know  the  kind. 

Not  many  in  a  life  you  find 

Whose  deeds  outrun  their  words  so  far 

That  more  than  what  they  seem  they  are. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  lies  as  well : 

The  kind  you  live,  the  ones  you  tell. 

Back  through  his  years  from  age  to  youth 

He  never  acted  one  untruth. 

Out  in  the  open  light  he  fought 

And  didn't  care  what  others  thought 

Nor  what  they  said  about  his  fight 

If  he  believed  that  he  was  right. 

The  only  deeds  he  ever  hid 

Were  acts  of  kindness  that  he  did. 

What  speech  he  had  was  plain  and  blunt. 
His  was  an  unattractive   front. 
Yet  children  loved  him;  babe  and  boy 
Played  with  the  strength  he  could  employ, 
1 80 


Without  one  fear,  and  they  are  fleet 
,To  sense  injustice  and  deceit. 
No  back  door  gossip  linked  his  name 
With  any   shady  tale   of   shame. 
He  did  not  have  to  compromise 
With  evil-doers,  shrewd  and  wise, 
And  let  them  ply  their  vicious  trade 
Because  of  some  past  escapade. 

Men  are  of  two  kinds,  and  he 

Was  of  the  kind  I'd  like  to  be. 

No  door  at  which  he  ever  knocked 

Against  his  manly  form  was  locked. 

If  ever  man  on  earth  was  free 

And  independent,  it  was  he. 

No  broken  pledge  lost  him  respect, 

He  met  all  men  with  head  erect, 

And  when  he  passed  I  think  there  went 

A  soul  to  yonder  firmament 

So  white,  so  splendid  and  so  fine 

It  came  almost  to  God's  design. 


181 


THE  NEIGHBORLY  MAN 

Some  are  eager  to  be  famous,  some  are  striving 
to  be  great, 

Some  are  toiling  to  be  leaders  of  their  nation 
or  their  state, 

And  in  every  man's  ambition,  if  we  only  under 
stood, 

There  is  much  that's  fine  and  splendid;  every 
hope  is  mostly  good. 

So  I  cling  unto  the  notion  that  contented  I 
will  be 

If  the  men  upon  life's  pathway  find  a  needed 
friend  in  me. 

I   rather  like  to  putter  'round  the   walks  and 

yards  of  life, 
To  spray  at  night  the  roses  that  are  burned  and 

browned  with  strife; 
To  eat  a  frugal  dinner,  but  always  to  have  a 

chair 
For   the   unexpected    stranger   that   my    simple 

meal  would  share. 
I  don't  care  to  be  a  traveler,  I  would  rather  be 

the  one 
Sitting  calmly  by  the  roadside  helping  weary 

travelers  on. 


182 


I'd  like  to  be  a  neighbor  in  the  good  old-fash 
ioned  way, 

Finding  much  to  do  for  others,  but  not  over 
much  to  say. 

I  like  to  read  the  papers,  but  I  do  not  yearn 
to  see 

What  the  journal  of  the  morning  has  been 
moved  to  say  of  me ; 

In  the  silences  and  shadows  I  would  live  my 
life  and  die 

And  depend  for  fond  remembrance  on  some 
grateful  passers-by. 

I    guess    I    wasn't    fashioned    for    the    brilliant 

things  of  earth, 
Wasn't  gifted  much  with  talent  or  designed  for 

special  worth, 
But  was  just  sent  here  to  putter  with  life's  little 

odds  and  ends 
And  keep   a   simple   corner   where   the   stirring 

highway  bends, 
And  if  folks  should  chance  to  linger,  worn  and 

weary  through  the  day, 
To  do  some  needed  service  and  to  cheer  them 

on  their  way. 


183 


ROSES 

When   God   first   viewed   the    rose   He'd   made 

He  smiled,  and  thought  it  passing  fair; 
Upon  the  bloom  His  hands  He  laid, 

And   gently  blessed  each  petal   there. 
He  summoned  in  His  artists  then 

And  bade  them  paint,  as  ne'er  before, 
Each  petal,  so  that  earthly  men 

Might  love  the  rose  for  evermore. 

With  Heavenly  brushes  they  began 

And  one  with  red  limned  every  leaf, 
To  signify  the  love  of  man; 

The   first   rose,   white,   betokened   grief; 
"  My  rose  shall  deck  the  bride,"  one  said 

And  so  in  pink  he  dipped  his  brush, 
"  And  it  shall  smile  beside  the  dead 

To  typify  the  faded  blush." 

And  then  they  came  unto  His  throne 

And  laid  the  roses  at  His  feet, 
The  crimson  bud,  the  bloom  full  blown, 

Filling  the  air  with  fragrance  sweet. 
"  Well  done,  well  done !  "  the  Master  spake ; 

"Henceforth  the  rose  shall  bloom  on  earth: 
One  fairer  blossom  I  will  make," 

And  then  a  little  babe  had  birth. 


184 


On  earth  a  loving  mother  lay 

Within  a  rose-decked  room  and  smiled, 
But  from  the  blossoms  turned  away 

To  gently  kiss  her  little  child, 
And  then  she  murmured  soft  and  low, 

"  For  beauty,  here,  a  mother  seeks. 
None  but  the  Master  made,  I  know, 

The  roses  in  a  baby's  cheeks." 


THE  JUNK  BOX 

My  father  often  used  to  say : 

"  My  boy  don't  throw  a  thing  away : 

You'll  find  a  use  for  it  some  day." 

So  in  a  box  he  stored  up  things, 

Bent  nails,  old  washers,  pipes  and  rings, 

And  bolts  and  nuts  and  rusty  springs. 

Despite  each  blemish  and  each  flaw, 
Some  use  for  everything  he  saw; 
With  things  material,  this  was  law. 

And  often  when  he'd  work  to  do, 
He  searched  the  junk  box  through  and  through 
And  found  old  stuff  as  good  as  new. 
185 


And  I  have  often  thought  since  then, 
That  father  did  the  same  with  men; 
He  knew  he'd  need  their  help  again. 

It  seems  to  me  he  understood 
That  men,  as  well  as  iron  and  wood, 
May  broken  be  and  still  be  good. 

Despite  the  vices  he'd  display 
He  never  threw  a  man  away, 
But  kept  him  for  another  day. 

A  human  junk  box  is  this  earth 
And  into  it  we're  tossed  at  birth, 
To  wait  the  day  we'll  be  of  worth. 

Though  bent  and  twisted,  weak  of  will, 
And  full  of  flaws  and  lacking  skill, 
Some  service  each  can  render  still. 


THE  BOY  THAT  WAS 

When  the  hair  about  the  temples  starts  to  show 

the  signs  of  gray, 
And  a  fellow  realizes  that  he's  wandering  far 

away 
From   the    pleasures    of   his    boyhood    and    his 

youth,  and  never  more 
Will  know  the  joy  of  laughter  as  he  did  in  days 

of  yore, 

186 


Oh,  it's  then  he  starts  to  thinking  of  a  stubby 

little  lad 
With  a   face  as  brown  as  berries  and  a   soul 

supremely  glad. 

When  a  gray-haired  dreamer  wanders  down  the 

lanes  of  memory 
And  forgets  the  living  present  for  the  time  of 

"  used-to-be," 
He  takes  off  his  shoes  and  stockings,   and  he 

throws  his  coat  away, 
And  he's  free  from  all  restrictions,  save  the  rules 

of  manly  play. 
He  may  be  in  richest  garments,  but  bareheaded 

in  the  sun 
He  forgets  his  proud  successes  and  the  riches 

he  has  won. 

Oh,  there's  not  a  man  alive  but  that  would  give 

his  all  to  be 
The  stubby  little   fellow  that  in  dreamland  he 

can  see, 
And  the  splendors  that  surround  him  and  the 

joys  about  him  spread 
Only  seem  to  rise  to  taunt  him  with  the  boyhood 

that  has  fled. 
When  the  hair  about  the  temples  starts  to  show 

Time's  silver  stain, 
Then  the  richest  man  that's  living  yearns  to  be 

a  boy  again. 

187 


AS  FALL  THE  LEAVES 

As  fall  the  leaves,  so  drop  the  days 

In  silence  from  the  tree  of  life; 
Born  for  a  little  while  to  blaze 

In  action  in  the  heat  of  strife, 
And  then  to  shrivel  with  Time's  blast 
And  fade  forever  in  the  past. 

In  beauty  once  the  leaf  was  seen; 

To  all  it  offered  gentle  shade ; 
Men  knew  the  splendor  of  its  green 

That   cheered   them   so,   would   quickly    fade 
And  quickly,  too,  must  pass  away 
All  that  is  splendid  of  to-day. 

To  try  to  keep  the  leaves  were  vain: 
Men  understand  that  they  must  fall; 

Why  should  they  bitterly  complain 
When  sorrows  come  to  one  and  all? 

Why  should  they  mourn  the  passing  day 

That  must  depart  along  the  way? 


188 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


A  man  doesn't  whine  at  his  losses "i  •>? 

A  man  must  earn  his  hour  of  peace 109 

Are  you  fond  of  your  wife  and  your  children     57 

As  fall  the  leaves,  so  drop  the  days 188 

A  smudge  on  his  nose  and  a  smear  on  his 

cheek    13 

A  table  cloth  that  slightly  soiled 118 

A  touch  of  the  plain  and  the  prairie 96 

At  Sugar  Camp  the  cook  is  kind 26 

Be  a  friend.  You  don't  need  money 97 

Before  we  take  an  auto  ride  Pa  says  to  Ma.  22 

Be  grateful  for  the  kindly  friends 179 

Be  more  than  his  dad 128 

Can't  is  the  worst  word  that's  written 52 

Cheek  that  is  tanned  by  the  wind  of  the  north     59 
Courage  isn't  a  brilliant  dash 72 

Did  you  ever  sit  down  and  talk  with  men. .    163 
Does  the  grouch  get  richer  quicker 14 

Foxes  can  talk  if  you  know  how  to  listen. ...      80 
Full  many  a  time  a  thought  has  come 103 

Gentle  hands  that  never  weary 140 

God  grant  me  kindly  thought 121 

He  little  knew  the  sorrow  that  was  in  his 

vacant  chair 24 

He  spent  what  he  made,  or  he  gave  it  away  124 

He  was  going  to  be  all  that  a  mortal  should  120 

He  wiped  his  shoes  before  his  door 132 

How  do  you  tackle  your  work  each  day 62 

How  fine  it  is  at  night  to  say 164 

"  How  much  do  babies  cost?  "  said  he. .  18 


190  Index:  of  First  Lines 

I  am  selfish  in  my  wishin'  every  sort  o'  joy.  20 

I  believe  in  the  world 168 

I'd  like  to  be  a  boy  again 16 

I'd  like  to  be  the  sort  of  friend 32 

I'd  like  to  be  the  sort  of  man 112 

I'd  like  to  leave  but  daff odills 75 

I  do  not  say  new  friends  are  not  considerate  34 

I  do  not  think  all  failure's  undeserved 77 

If  I  had  hatred  in  my  heart 173 

If  never  a  sorrow  came  to  us 85 

I  might  not  ever  scale  the  mountain  heights  143 

I'm  not  the  man  to  say  that  failure's  sweet.  43 

I'm  the  bumps  and  bruises  doctor 107 

I'm  up  against  it  day  by  day 166 

I  never  knew,  until  they  went 49 

It's  an  easy  world  to  live  in  if  you  choose. .  158 

It's  coming  time  for  planting 44 

It's  guessing  time  at  our  house 148 

It's  September,  and  the  orchards  are  afire.  .  60 

It's  the  dull  road  that  leads  to  the  gay  road  67 

It's  tough  when  you  are  homesick 117 

It  takes  a  heap  o'  livin'  in  a  house  to  make  it 

home  28 

I've  sipped  a  rich  man's  sparkling  wine 74 

I've  told  about  the  times  that  Ma  can't  find 

her  pocketbook 94 

Lady  in  the  show  case  carriage 122 

Less  hate  and  greed 58 

Let  others  sing  their  songs  of  war 82 

Life  is  a  challenge  to  the  bold 145 

Life  is  a  gift  to  be  used  every  day 63 

Little  Master  Mischievous,  that's  the  name.  38 

Ma  has  a  dandy  little  book 100 

Ma  says  no,  it's  too  much  care 116 

Men  are  of  two  kind,  and  he 180 

Most  every  night  when  they're  in  bed 64 


Index1  of  First  Lines  191 

Most  folks,  as  I've  noticed,  in  pleasure  an' 

strife  176 

My  father  often  used  to  say 185 

My  Pa  he  eats  his  breakfast 50 

Never  a  sigh  for  the  cares  that  she  bore. ...      19 

Nobody  hates  me  more  than  1 170 

None  knows  the  day  that  friends  must  part     33 

No  one  is  beat  till  he  quits Ill 

Not  for  the  sake  of  the  gold 93 

One  day,  in  ages  dim  and  dark 177 

Only  a  dad  with  a  tired  face 42 

Pa's  not  so  very  big"  or  brave 108 

People  liked  him,  not  because 152 

Promotion  comes  to  him  who  sticks 174 

Right  must  not  live  in  idleness 85 

She  is  fair  to  see  and  sweet 130 

So  long  as  men  shall  be  on  earth 39 

Some  are  eager  to  be  famous 182 

Some  folks  leave  home  for  money 70 

Some    folks    I  know,  when  friends  drop  in . .  144 

Take  home  a  smile ;  forget  the  petty  cares . .  71 
Thankful  for  the  glory  of  the  old  Red,  White 

and  Blue 98 

The  happiest  nights 110 

The  green  is  in  the  meadow 86 

The  kids  are  out-of-doors  once  more 104 

The  little  path  that  leads  to  home 30 

The  man  who  wants  a  garden  fair 56 

There  is  no  star  within  the  flag 160 

There  must  be  great  rejoicin'  on  the  Golden 

Shore  to-day 54 

There's  a  heap  of  pent-up  goodness 84 

There's  a  lot  of  joy  in  the  smiling  world. . .  40 

There's  a  wondrous  smell  of  spices 66 


192  Index  of  First  Lines 

There's  nothing  that  builds  up  a  toil-weary 

soul     102 

There  was  a  bear — his  name  was  Jim 134 

The  skies  are  blue  and  the  sun  is  out 78 

The  sumac's  flaming  scarlet 136 

The  things  that  haven't  been  done  before.  .  .  172 

The  things  that  make  a  soldier  great 114 

The  world's  too  busy  now  to  pause 92 

'Tis  better  to  have  tried  in  vain 83 

To  do  your  little  bit  of  toil 133 

To  gentle  ways  I  am  inclined 90 

To  happiness  I  raise  my  glass 146 

To  live  as  gently  as  I  can 15 

Time  was  when  spring  returned  we  went..  156 

'Twas  not  so  many  years  ago 154 

Used  to  wonder  just  why  father 46 

We  can  be  great  by  helping  one  another. . .  73 
We  was  speakin'  of  folks,  jes'  common  folks  .  36 
When  an  apple  tree  is  ready  for  the  world. .  68 
When  God  first  viewed  the  rose  He'd  made.  184 

When  he  was  only  nine  months  old 76 

When  I  was  young  and  frivolous 150 

When  Pa  comes  home,  I'm  at  the  door 138 

"  When  shall  I  be  a  man? "  he  said 126 

When  the  hair  about  the  temples  starts  to 

show  the  signs  of  gray 186 

When  you  get  to  know  a  fellow 11 

Who  does  his  task  from  day  to  day 91 

Who  has  a  troop  of  romping  youth 21 

Who  once  has  had  a  friend  has  found 167 

You  cannot  gather  every  rose.  r 141 

You  can  talk  about  your  music 106 

You  do  not  know  it,  little  man 88 

You  don't  begrudge  the  labor 113 

You  ought  to  be  fine  for  the  sake  of  the  folks  162 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE,,pnlhe  last  d&te  stamped  below. 


JUN  5     1957 
50 

DEC  1  '  1961 
rjUH2li96£ 

MOV  1  2  196Z 


AM 
7-4 

Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


Pi 

MAR  1  2  1973 


MAR  1 3  1391 


DECEIVED 

LD-URL 


8 


4-9 


PM 

to 


«™™™  THE 
IPNIVERS'ITY  OF  CALIPORNKf 
LOS  ANGELK* 


L  006  336  032  5 


